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MONSIEUR LECOQ. 



♦* 



CHAPTER L 

THE SEARCH. 

On the 20th of February, 18—, a Sun- 
day that chanced to be Shrove Sunday, 
about eleven o’clock in the evening, a 
party of agents of the safety-service left 
the police-station at the old Barriere 
d’ltalie. 

The mission of this party was to ex- 
plore that vast precinct which extends 
from the road to Fontainebleau to the 
Seine, and from the outer boulevards to 
the fortifications. 

This quarter of the city had at that 
time anything but an enviable reputation. 
To venture there at night was considered 
so dangerous that soldiers from the forts, 
who came to Paris with permission to 
attend the theatre, were ordered to wait 
at the barriere , and not to pass through 
the perilous locality except in parties of 
three or four. 

After midnight, these gloomy and 
narrow streets became the haunt of flocks 
of homeless vagabonds. Escaped crimi- 
nals and malefactors made this quarter 
their rendezvous. If the day had been a 
lucky one, they made merry over their 
spoils. When sleep overtook them, they 
hid in doorways or among the rubbish in 
deserted houses. 

Every effort had been made to dislodge 
these dangerous guests, but the most en- 
ergetic measures had failed of success. 

Watched, hunted, and in imminent 
danger of arrest though they were, they 
always returned with idiotic obstinacy, 
obeying, as one might suppose, some 
mysterious law of attraction. 

Hence, the police had there an immense 
trap, constantly baited, to which their 


game came of their own accord to he 

caught. 

The result of a tour of inspection was 
so certain, that it was with an assured 
tone the officer in charge of the post 
called to the squad as they departed : 

“I will prepare lodgings for our guests. 
Good luck to you, and much pleasure !” 

This last wish was pure irony, for the 
weather was the most disagreeable that 
could be imagined. 

A very heavy snow-storm had prevailed 
for several days. It was now beginning 
to thaw, and on all the frequented 
thoroughfares the slush was ankle-deep. 
It was still cold, however ; a damp chill 
filled the air, and penetrated to the very 
marrow of one’s bones. Besides, there 
was a dense fog, so dense that one could 
not see one’s hands before one’s face. 

“What a beastly job !” growled one of 
the agents. 

“Yes,” replied the inspector who com- 
manded the squad; “I think if you had 
an income of thirty thousand francs you 
would not be here.” 

The laugh that greeted this common- 
place joke was not so much flattery as 
homage to a recognized and established 
superiority. 

The inspector was, in fact, one of the 
most esteemed members of the force*, a 
man who had proved his worth. 

His powers of penetration were not, 
perhaps, very great ; but he thoroughly 
understood his business, its resources, its 
labyrinths, and its artifices. Long prac- 
tice had given him imperturbable cool- 
ness, a great confidence in himself, and a 
sort of coarse diplomacy, that answered 
in place of shrewdness. 

To his failings and to his virtues he 
added incontestable courage. . 

He laid his hand upon the collar of 


4 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


the most dangerous malefactor as tran- 
quilly as a devotee dips his fingers in a 
basin of holy water. 

He was a man about forty-six years of 
age, strongly built, with rugged features, 
a heavy moustache, and rather small, 
gray eyes, hidden by bushy eyebrows. 

His name was Gevrol, but he was uni- 
versally known as “ General.” 

This sobriquet was pleasing to his van- 
ity, which was not slight, as his subor- 
dinates well knew; and, doubtless, he 
felt that he ought to receive from them 
the consideration due a person of that 
exalted rank. 

“ If you begin to complain already,” 
he added, gruffly, “ what will you do by 
and by?” 

In fact, it was too soon to complain. 

The little party were then passing up 
the Rue de Choisy. The people upon the 
sidewalks were orderly; and the lights 
of the wine-shops illuminated the street. 

For all these places were open. There 
is no fog nor thaw that is potent enough 
to dismay lovers of pleasure. And a 
boisterous crowd of maskers filled each 
saloon and public ball-room. 

Through the open windows came, al- 
ternately, the sounds of loud voices and 
bursts of noisy music. Occasionally a 
drunken man staggered along the pave- 
ment, or a masked figure crept along in 
the shadow of the houses. 

Before certain establishments Gevrol 
commanded a halt. He gave a peculiar 
whistle and almost immediately a man 
came out. It was another member of the 
force. His report was listened to, and 
then the squad passed on. 

“ To the left, boys ! ” ordered Gevrol ; 
“ we will take the Rue dTvry, and then 
cut through the shortest way to the Rue 
de Chevaleret.” 

From this point the expedition became 
really disagreeable. 

Their way led through an unfinished 
street that had not even been named, full 
of mud-puddles and deep-holes, and ob- 
structed with all sorts of rubbish. 

There were no longer any lights or 
drinking saloons ; no footsteps, no voices ; 
nothing but solitude, gloom and silence. 

One might have supposed one’s self a 
hundred leagues from Paris, had it not 
been for the deep and continuous mur- 
mur that always arises from a large city, 
like the hollow roaring of a torrent in 
the depths of a cave. 

All the men had turned up their pant- 
aloons, and were advancing slowly, pick- 
ing their way as carefully as an Indian 
when he is stealing upon his prey. 

They had just passed the Rue de Chat- 
eau des-Rentier, when suddenly a wild 
shriek rent the air. 

At this place, and at this hour, this cry 
was so frightfully significant, that all 


the men paused as if by common im- 
pulse. 

“Did you hear that, General?” asked 
one of the police, in a low voice. 

“Yes, there is murder going on not 
far from here — but where? Silence I let 
us listen.” 

They all stood motionless, with anx- 
ious ears, holding their breath, and soon 
a second cry, or rather a wild howl, re- 
sounded. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the captain of the 
guard, “ it is at the Poivriere.”* 

This peculiar appellation described ex- 
actly the place which it designated, and 
the guests that were wont to frequent it. 

In figurative language that has its 
source in Mount Parnassus, they say 
that a man is “ peppered ” when he leaves 
his good sense in the bottom of his glass ; 
hen e the sobriquet of “ stealers of 
peper” given to the rascals whose 
specialty is to plunder inoffensive and 
helpless drunken men. 

“ What ! ” added Gevrol, “ you do not 
know Mother Chupin’s drinking saloon 
there, on the right. Run.” 

And setting the example, he dashed off 
in the direction indicated. His men fol- 
lowed, and in less than a minute they 
reached a hovel, sinister of aspect and 
standing alone. 

It was indeed from this house that the 
cries had proceeded. They were repeated, 
and were immediately followed by two 
pistol shots. 

The house was hermetically closed, but 
through the heart-shaped windows cov- 
ered with shutters, filtered a reddish 
light like that of a fire. 

One of the policemen darted to one of 
these windows, and raising himself up 
by clinging to the shutters wuth his hands, 
he endeavored to peer through the cracks, 
and to see what was passing within. 

Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open 1” 
he commanded, striking it heavily. 

No response. 

But they could hear plainly the sound 
of a terrible struggle — of fierce impreca- 
tions, hollow groans, and occasionally 
the sobs of a woman. 

“ Horrible ! ” cried the policeman, who 
was peering through the shutters ; “ it is 
horrible ! ” 

This exclamation decided Gevrol. 

“ Open, in the name of the law! ” he 
cried, a third time. 

And no person responding, with a blow 
of his shoulder that was as violent as a 
blow from a battering-ram, he dashed 
open the door. 

Then the horror-stricken accent of the 
man who had been peering through the 
shutters was explained. 

The room presented such a spectacle 
that all the agents, and even Gevrol him- 


♦Pepper-box. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


5 


self, remained for a moment rooted to 
their places, cold with unspeakable hor- 
ror. 

Everything about the place denoted 
that it had been the scene of a terrible 
struggle, one of those savage conflicts 
that too often stain the drinking saloons 
of the barrieres with blood. 

The lights had been extinguished at 
the beginning of the strife, but a huge 
fire of pine logs illuminated the remotest 
corners of the room. 

Tables, glasses, decanters, household 
utensils, and stools had been overturned, 
thrown in every direction, trodden upon, 
and shivered into fragments. 

Near the fire-place two men were 
stretched upon the floor. They were 
lying motionless upon their backs, their 
arms crossed. A third was lying in the 
middle of the room. 

A woman crouched upon the lower 
steps of a staircase leading up to the floor 
above. She had thrown her apron over 
her head, and was uttering inarticulate 
moans. 

Opposite them, on the threshold of a 
wide-open door leading into an adjoining 
room, stood a young man, a heavy oaken 
table forming a rampart before him. 

He was of medium stature, and wore a 
full beard. 

His clothing, which was like that worn 
t>y porters about the wharves and rail- 
way stations, was torn to fragments, and 
soiled with dust and wine and blood. 

This certainly was the murderer. The 
expression of his face was terrible. A 
mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a con- 
vulsive sneer distorted his features. In 
his neck and on his cheek were two 
wounds that were bleeding profusely. 

In his right hand, covered with a hand- 
kerchief, he held a pistol, which he aimed 
at the intruders. 

44 Surrender ! ” cried Gevrol. 

The man’s lips moved, but in spite of 
a visible effort he could not articulate a 
syllable. 

“Don’t do any mischief,” continued 
the inspector, u we are in force, you can- 
not escape ; so lay down your arms.” 

“ I am innocent,” exclaimed the man, 
in a hoarse, strained voice. 

u Naturally, but we do not see it.” 

“ I have been attacked ; ask that old 
woman. I defended myself; I have 
killed— I had a right to do so ; it was in 
self defense ! ” 

The gesture with which he enforced 
these words was so menacing that one 
of the policemen drew Gevrol violently 
to one side, saying, as he did so : 

44 Take care, General, take care I The 
revolver has five barrels, and we have 
heard but two shots.” 

But the inspector was inaccessible to 
fear : he freed himself from the grasp of 

V • S’ 


his subordinate and again stepped for- 
ward, speaking in a still calmer tone. 

44 No foolishness, my boy; if your case 
is a good one, which is possible after all, 
do not spoil it.” 

A frightful indecision betrayed itself 
on the young man’s features. He held 
Gevrol’s life at the end of his finger; was 
he about to press the trigger? 

No, he suddenly threw his weapon to 
the floor, saying : 

“Come and take me !” 

And turning, he darted into the adjoin- 
ing room, hoping doubtless to escape by 
some place of egress known to himself. 

Gevrol had expected this movement. 
He sprang after him with outstretched 
arms, but the table retarded him. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the wretch es- 
capes us!” 

But the fate of the fugitive was already 
decided. 

While Gevrol was parleying, one of 
the policemen — the one who had peered 
through the window — had made a circuit 
of the house and had effected an entrance 
through the back door. 

As the murderer was darting out, this 
man sprang upon him, seized him, and 
with surprising strength and agility 
dragged him back. 

The murderer tried to resist; in vain. 
He had lost his strength : he tottered and 
fell upon the table that had protected 
him, murmuring loud enough for every 
one to hear : 

“■Lost! It is the Prussians who are 
coming !” 

This simple and decisive manoeuvre on 
the part of the subordinate had won the 
victory, and must have delighted the in- 
spector. » 

‘‘Good, my boy,” said he, “very good ! 
Ah ! you have a talent for your business, 
and you will do well if ever an opportu- 
nity ” 

He checked himself ; all his followers 
so evidently shared his enthusiasm that a 
feeling of jealousy overtook him. He 
felt his prestige diminishing, and has- 
tened to add : 

“The idea had occurred to me ; but I 
could not give the order without warning 
the scoundrel himself.” 

This remark was surperfluous. All the 
men had gathered around the murderer. 
They surrounded him, and, after binding 
his feet and hands, they fastened him se- 
curely to a chair. 

He offered no resistance. His wild 
excitement had given place to that gloomy 
prostration that follows all unnatural 
efforts, either of mind or of body. Evi- 
dently he had abandoned himself to his 
fate. 

When Gevrol saw that the men had 
finished this task : 

44 Now,” he commanded , 44 let us attend 


6 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


to the others; and light the lamps, for 
the fire is going out.” 

It was with the two men stretched out 
before the hearth that the inspector began 
his examination. 

He questioned the beating of their 
hearts ; their hearts no longer beat. He 
held the crystal of his watch close to their 
lips ; the glass remained shining and clear. 

“ Useless,” he murmered, after several 
trials, “useless; they are dead I They 
will never see morning again. Leave 
them in the same position until the arrival 
of the coroner, and let us look at the 
third.” 

The third man still breathed. He was 
a young man, wearing the uniform of a 
common soldier. He was unarmed, and 
his large gray cloak was partly open, 
revealing his bare chest. 

They lifted him very carefully, for he 
groaned piteously at the slighest move- 
ment, and they placed him in an upright 
position, with his back supported against 
the wall. 

Soon he opened his eyes, and in a faint 
voice asked for something to drink. 

They brought him a glass of water ; he 
drank it with evident satisfaction; then 
he drew a long breath, and seemed to be 
regaining some of his strength. 

“Where are you wounded?” demanded 
Gevrol. 

“In the head, there,” he responded, 
trying to raise one of his arms. “ Oh ! 
how I suffer.” 

The police agent, who had cut off the 
retreat of the murderer, approached, and 
with a dexterity that an old surgeon 
might have envied, made an examination 
of the gaping wound that the young man 
had received»in the back of his neck. 

“It is nothing,” the policeman de- 
clared. 

But there was no mistaking the move- 
ment of his lower lip. It was evident 
that he considered the wound very dan- 
gerous, probably mortal. 

“ It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol ; 
“ wounds in the head, when they do not 
kill at once, are cured in a month.” 

The wounded man smiled sadly. 

“ I have received my death-blow,” he 
murmured. 

“ Nonsense !” 

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I 
feel it, but I do not complain. I have 
received only my just deserts.” 

All the agents of police turned toward 
the murderer on hearing thesfi words. 
They supposed that he would take advan- 
tage of this opportunity to repeat his 
protestations of innocence. 

Their expectations were disappointed ; 
he did not speak, although he must cer- 
tainly have heard the words. 

“It was the brigand, Lacheneur, who 
enticed me here,” continued the wounded 


man, in a voice that was growing fainter. 

“ Lacheneur?” 

“ Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, 
who had known me when I was rich — 
for I have had a fortune, but I have spent 
it all ; I wished to amuse myself. He, 
knowing I was without a sem, came to me 
and promised me money enough to begin 
life over again. And because I believed 
him I came to die like a dog in this hole ! 
Oh ! I will have my revenge on him !” 

At the thought he clenched his hands 
threateningly. 

“ I will have my revenge,” he resumed. 

“ I know much more than he believes. 
I will tell all.” 

He had presumed too much upon his 
strength. Anger had given him a mo- 
ment’s energy, but it was at the cost of 
the life that was ebbing away. 

When he again tried to speak, he could 
not. Twice he opened his lips, but there 
issued from them only a choking cry of 
impotent rage. 

It was the last manifestation of intel- 
ligence. A bloody foam gathered upon 
his lips, his eyes rolled back in their 
sockets, his body stiffened, and he fell 
face downward in a terrible convulsion. 

“It is over,” murmured Gevrol. 

“Not yet,” replied the young police- 
man, who had shown himself so efficient ; 
“ but he cannot live more than two min- 
utes. Poor devil ! he will say nothing.” 

The inspector of police had risen from 
the floor as if he had just witnessed the 
commonest incident in the world, and 
was carefully dusting the knees of his 
pantaloons. 

“Oh, well,” he responded, “we shall 
know all we need to know. This fellow 
is a soldier, and the number of his regi- 
ment wall be given on the buttons of his 
cloak.” * 

A slight smile curved the lips of his 
subordinate. 

“I think you are mistaken, General,” 
said he. 

“How ” 

“Yes, I understand.’ Seeing him at- 
tired in a military coat, you have sup- 
posed But no ; this poor wretch was 

no spldier. Do you wish an immediate 
proof of this? Is his hair the regulation 
cut? Where have you seen soldiers with 
their hair falling upon their shoulders?” 

This objection silenced the General for 
a moment ; but he replied, brusquely : 

“Do you think that I keep my eyes in 
my pocket? What you have remarked 
did not escape my notice ; only I said to 
myself, here is a young man who has 
profited by leave of absence to visit the 
wig-maker.” 

“At least ” 

But Gevrol would permit no more in- 
terruptions. 

“Enough talk,” he declared. We will 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


7 


now hear what has passed. Mother Chu- 
pin, the old hussy, is not dead !” 

As he spoke, he advanced towards the 
old woman, who was still crouching upon 
the stairs. She had not spoken, nor 
moved, nor ventured so much as a look, 
since the entrance of the police, but her 
moans had not been discontinued. 

With a sudden movement, Gevrol tore 
off the apron which she had thrown over 
her head, and there she stood, such as 
ears, vice, poverty, and torrents of 
randy and ratafea had made her ; 
wrinkled, shriveled, toothless and hag- 
gard, her skin, yellow and dry as parch- 
ment, drawn tightly over her bones. 

“Come, stand up !” ordered the inspec- 
tor. “Your lamentations do not trouble 
me much. You ought to be sent to pris- 
on for putting such vile drugs into your 
liquors, to breed madness in the brains 
of your visitors.” 

The old woman’s little red eyes trav- 
eled slowly around the room, and in tear- 
ful tones she exclaimed : 

“What a misfortune ! what will become 
of me? Everything is broken — I am 
ruined!” 

She seemed to be impressed only by 
the loss of her table utensils. 

“Now tell us how this trouble began,” 
said Gevrol. 

“Alas ! I know nothing about it. I 
was up stairs mending my son’s clothes, 
when 1 heard a dispute.” 

“And after that?” 

“Of course I came down, and I saw 
those three men that are lying there pick- 
ing a quarrel with that young man whom 
you have arrested; the poor innocent! 
For he is innocent, as truly as I am an 
honest woman. If my son Polyte had 
been here he would have parted them; 
but I, a poor widow, what could I do ? I 
cried ‘Police!’ with all my might.” 

After giving this testimony she resumed 
her seat, thinking she had said enough. 
But Gevrol rudely ordered her to stand 
up again. 

“Oh! we have not done,” said he. “I 
wish other particulars.” 

“What particulars, dear Monsieur Gev- 
rol, since I saw nothing?” 

Anger crimsoned the large ears of the 
inspector. 

“What would you say, old woman, if I 
arrested you?” 

“It would be a great injustice.” 

“It is what will happen if you per- 
sist in remaining silent. I have an idea 
that a fortnight in Saint-Lazare would 
untie your tongue.” 

This name produced the effect of an 
electric shock on the Widow Cliupin. 
She suddenly ceased her hypocritical lam- 
entations, rose, placed her hands defiant- 
ly upon her hips, and poured forth a tor- 
rent of invective upon Gevrol and his 
agents, accusing them of persecuting her 


family since they had previously arrested 
her son, a mauvais sujee , and swearing 
that she was not afrad of prison, and 
would be only too glad to end her days 
there beyond the reach of want. 

At first the General tried to impose si- 
lence upon the terrible termagant; but 
he soon discovered that he was power- 
less ; besides, all his subordinates were 
laughing. He turned his back upon her, 
and advancing towards the murderer, he 
said : 

“You, at least, will not refuse an ex- 
planation.” 

The man hesitated for a moment. 

“I have already said all that I have to 
say,” he replied, at last. “I have told 
you that I am innocent ; and a man on 
the point of death who was struck down 
by my hand, and this old woman, have 
both confirmed my declaration. What 
more do you desire? When the judge 
questions me, I will, perhaps, reply ; un- 
til then do not expect another word from 
me.” 

It was easy to see that this man’s reso- 
lution was irrevocable ; and that he was 
not to be daunted by any sergeant of 
police. 

Very often criminals, from the moment 
of their capture, preserve an absolute 
silence. These men are experienced and 
shrewd; these are the men who cause 
lawyers and judges many sleepless nights. 

They have learned that a system of de- 
fence cannot be improvised at once ; that 
it is, on the contrary, a work of patience 
and of meditation ; and knowing what a 
terrible effect an apparently insignificant 
response drawn from them at the moment 
of detection may produce on a court of 
justice, they are silent. 

Gevrol was about to insist, when some 
one announced that the soldier had just 
breathed his last. 

“As that is so, my boys,” he remarked, 
“two of you will remain here, and I will 
leave with the others. I shall go and 
arouse the commissioner of police, and 
inform him of the affair ; he will take the 
matter in hand ; and we will do whatever 
he commands. My responsibility will be 
over, in any case. So untie the legs of 
our prisoner, and bind Mother Chupin’s 
hands, and we will drop them both at 
the station-house as we pass.” 

The men hastened to obey, with the ex- 
ception of the youngest among them, the 
same who had won the eulogiums of the 
General. 

He approached his chief, and motion- 
ing that he desired to speak with him, 
drew him outside the door. 

When they were a few steps from the 
house : 

“What do you wish?” inquired Gevrol. 

“I want to know, General, what you 
think of this affair.” 

“I think, my boy, that four scoundrels 


8 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


encountered each other in this vile den. 
They began to quarrel ; and from words 
they came to blows. One of them had a 
revolver, and he killed the others. It is 
as clear as daylight. According to his 
antecedents, and according to the antece- 
dents of the victims, the assassin will be 
judged. Perhaps society owes him some 
thanks.” 

“And you think that any investigation 
— any further search is unnecessary?” 

“Entirely unnecessary.” 

The younger man appeared to deliber- 
ate for a moment. 

“It seems to me, General,” he replied 
at length, “that this affair is not perfect- 
ly clear. Have you noticed the murder- 
er, remarked his demeanor, and observed 
his look? Have you been surprised as I 
have been ” 

“By what?” 

“Ah, well ! it seems to me — I may, of 
course, be mistaken — but I fancy that ap- 
pearances are deceitful, and Yes, I 

suspect something.” 

“Bah ! — explain why you should, if you 
please.” 

“How can you explain the power of 
scenting his prey possessed by a hunting 
dog?” 

“Gevrol shrugged his shoulders. 

“In short,” he replied, “you scent a 
melodrama here — a rendezvous of great 
gentlemen in disguise, here at the Poiv- 
riere— at the house of Mother Chupin! 
Well, hunt the mystery, my boy; search 
all you like, you have my permission.” 

“What! you will allow me?” 

“I not only allow you, I order you to 
do it. You are going to remain here with 
such an one of your comrades as you 
may select. And if you find anything 
that I have not seen, I will allow you to 
buy me a pair of spectacles.” 


CHAPTER H. 

The young man to whom Gevrol aban- 
doned what he thought an unnecessary 
investigation was a debutant in his pro- 
fession. 

His name was Lecoq. 

He was a man of twenty-five or twenty- 
six years of age, almost beardless, very 
pale, with red lips, and an abundance of 
wavy black hair. He was rather small, 
but well proportioned; and his every 
movement betrayed unusual energy. 

There was nothing remarkable about 
his appearance, if we except his eyes, 
v hich sparkled brilliantly or grew dull, 
cocording to his mood; and his nose, 
whose large and rather full nostrils had 
a surprising mobility. 

The son of a rich and respectable fam- 
ily in Normandy, Lecoq had received a 
good and solid education. 


He had begun his law studies in Paris, 
when in the same week, blow following 
blow, he learned that his father had died, 
financially ruined, and that his mother 
had survived him only a few hours. 

He was now alone in the world, desti- 
tute of resources — and he was obliged to 
live. He had an opportunity of learning 
his true value ; it was nothing. 

The university, on bestowing the diplo- 
ma of bachelor, does not give an annuity 
with it. And of what use is a college 
education to a poor orphan boy? 

He envied the lot of those who, with a 
trade at the ends of their fingers, could 
boldly enter the office of any manufac- 
turer, and say : “I would like work.” 

Such men were working and eating. 

He sought bread by all the methods 
employed by people who are in reduced 
circumstances! Fruitless labor! There 
are one hundred thousand people in Paris 
who have seen better days. 

No matter! He gave proofs of un- 
daunted energy. He gave lessons, and 
he copied documents for a lawyer. He 
made his debut in a new role almost every 
day, and left no means untried to earn an 
honest livelihood. 

At last he obtained employment from a 
well-known astronomer, the Baron Mo- 
ser, and spent his days in solving bewil- 
dering and intricate problems at the rate 
of one hundred francs a month. 

But a season of discouragement came. 
After five years of constant toil, he found 
himself at the same point from which he 
had started. He was nearly crazed with 
rage and disappointment when he recap- 
itulated his blighted hopes, his fruitless 
efforts, and the insults he had endured. 

The past had been sad, the present was 
intolerable, the future threatened to be 
terrible. 

Condemned to constant privations, he 
tried to escape from the horrors of his 
real life by taking refuge in dreams. 

Alone in his garret, after a day of un- 
remitting toil, assailed by the thousand 
longings of youth, he endeavored to de- 
vise some means of suddenly making 
himself rich. 

All reasonable methods being beyond 
his reach, it was not long before he w T as 
engaged in devising the worst expedients. 

In short, this moral and honest young 
man spent much of his time in perpetra- 
ting — in fancy — the most abominable 
crimes. Sometimes he himself was 
frightened by the work of his imagina- 
tion. An hour of recklessness was all 
that was necessary to make him pass 
from the idea to the fact, from theory to 
practice. 

This is the case with all monomaniacs ; 
an hour comes in which the strange con- 
ceptions that have filled their brains can 
be no longer held in check. 

One day he could not help exposing to 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


9 


his patron a little plan which he had con- 
ceived, which would enable him to ob- 
tain five or six hundred francs from Lon- 
don. Two letters and a telegram were 
all that was necessary, and the game was 
won. It was impossible to fail, and there 
was no danger of arousing suspicion. 

The astronomer, amazed at the sim- 
plicity of the plan, could but admire it. 
On reflection, however, he concluded that 
it would not be prudent for him to retain 
so ingenious a secretary in his service. 

This was why, on the following day, 
he gave him a month’s pay in advance, 
and dismissed him, saying: 

“When one has your disposition, and is 
poor, one will either become a famous 
thief or a great detective. Choose.” 

Lecoq retired in confusion ; but the as- 
tronomer’s words bore fruit in his mind. 

“Why should I not follow good ad- 
vice?” he asked himself. 

Police service did not inspire him with 
repugnance — far from it. He had 
often admired that mysterious power 
whose hand was everywhere, which one 
could not see nor hear, but which heard 
and saw everything. 

He was delighted with the prospect of 
being the instrument of this power. He 
considered such a profession as a useful 
and honorable employment of the special 
talent with which he had been endowed, 
and which promised a life of excitement, 
of thrilling adventures, and fame at last. 

In short, this profession held a won- 
derful charm for him. 

So much so, that on the following 
week, thanks to a letter from Baron 
Moser, he was admitted into the service. 

A cruel disenchantment awaited him. 
ne had seen the results, but not the 
means. His surprise was like that of a 
simple-minded frequenter of the theatre, 
when he is admitted for the first time be- 
hind the scenes, and sees the decorations 
and tinsel that are so dazzling at a dis- 
tance. 

Ah, well !— the opportunity for which 
he had so ardently longed, for which he 
had been waiting for months, had come 
at last, he thought, on entering the Poiv- 
riere. 

While he was clinging to the window 
he saw by the .light of his ambition the 
pathway to success. 

It was at first only a presentiment. It 
soon became a supposition, then a con- 
viction based upon actual facts, which 
had escaped the notice of his companions, 
but which he had observed and carefully 
noted. 

Fortune had, at last, turned in his 
favor ; he recognized this fact when he 
saw Gevrol neglect .all but the merest 
formalities of examination, when he 
heard him declare peremptorily that this 
triple murder was merely the result of 
one of those ferocious quarrels so fre-l 


] quent among vagrants on the outskirts of 
the city. 

“Ah, well!” he thought; “have it your 
own way — trust in appearances, since you 
will see nothing beneath them ! I will 
prove to you that my youthful theory is 
better than all your experience.” 

The carelessness of the inspector gave 
Lecoq a right to secretly seek informa- 
tion on his own account ; but by warning 
his superior officer before attempting 
anything on his own responsibility, he 
protected himself against any accusation 
of ambition or of unduly taking advan- 
tage of his comrade. These would be 
grave accusations against him in a pro- 
fession where competition and rivalry are 
most potent ; and where wounded vanity 
has so many opportunities to avenge it- 
self by all sorts of petty treason. 

He spoke then to his superior officer- 
said just enough to be able to say, in case 
of success: “Ah! I warned you!”— just 
enough not to dispel the doubt in Gevrol’s 
mind. 

The permission that he obtained was 
his first triumph, and the best possible 
augury; but he knew how to dissimu- 
late, and it was in a tone of the utmost 
indifference that he requested one of his 
comrades to remain with him. 

Then, while the others were making 
ready to depart, he seated himself upon 
a corner of the table, apparently obliv- 
ious of all that was passing. He did not 
dare to lift his head, for fear of betray- 
ing his joy, so much did he fear that his 
companions would read his hopes and his 
plans in his face. 

Inwardly he was wild with impatience. 
Though the murderer submitted with 
good grace to the precautions that were 
taken to prevent his escape, it required 
some time to bind the hands of the Widow 
Chupin, who fought and howled as if 
they were burning her alive. 

“They will never go!” Lecoq said to 
himself. 

They did so at last, however. Gevrol 
gave the order to depart, and left the 
house, after addressing a laughing good- 
bye to his subordinate. 

The latter made no reply. He followed 
them to the threshold of the door, as if 
to assure himself that the squad had really 
gone. 

He trembled at the thought that Gevrol 
might reflect, change his mind, and re- 
turn to solve the mystery, as was his 
right. 

His anxiety was needless. The forms 
of the men faded in the distance, the 
cries of Widow Chupin died away i®, tW 
stillness of the night. They had alb dis- 
appeared. 

Not until then did Lecoq re-enter the 
room. He could no longer conceal his 
delight; his eyes sparkled like a con- 
Iqueror taking possession of an empire; 


10 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


he stamped his foot upon the floor and 
exclaimed : 

“Now it belongs to us two l” 


CHAPTER HI. 

Attthoeized by Gevrol to choose one 
of his comrades to remain with him in 
Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the one 
who was considered the least intelligent 
of the party to keep him company. 

He was not influenced by a fear of 
being obliged to share the fruits of suc- 
cess with his companion, but by the neces- 
sity of having an assistant of whom he 
could, in case of need, exact obedience. 
The comrade Lecoq selected was a man 
of about fifty, who, after a term in the 
cavalry service, had entered the prefec- 
ture. 

In the humble office that he occupied 
he had seen prefet succeed prefet , and had 
probably filled a prison with culprits 
whom he had arrested with his own 
hands. 

He was no more shrewd and no more 
zealous now than he had always been. 
When he received an order he executed 
it with military exactitude, so far as he 
understood it. 

If he had failed to understand it, so 
much the worse. 

He discharged his duties like a blind 
man, like an old horse trained for a rid- 
ing-school. 

When he had a moment’s leisure, and 
any money, he got drunk. 

He spent his life between two fits of 
intoxication, without ever rising above a 
condition of demi-lucidity. 

His comrades had known, but had for- 
gotten, his name. Every one now called 
him Father Absinthe. 

Naturally he did not observe the enthu- 
siasm nor the tone of triumph in his 
young companion’s voice. 

“Upon my word,” he remarked, when 
they were alone, “your idea of keeping 
me here was a good one, and I thank you 
for it. While the others will spend the 
night paddling about in the slush, I shall 
get a good sleep.” 

Here he stood, in a room that was 
splashed with blood, that was shudder- 
ing with crime, and face to face with the 
still warm bodies of the murdered men 
he could talk of sleep ! 

But what did all this matter to him? 
He had seen so many similar scenes in his 
life. And does not habit infallibly lead 
to professional indifference — that strange 
phenomenon that makes the soldier cool 
and composed in the midst of conflict, 
that gives the surgeon impassibility when 
the patient shrieks and writhes beneath 
his operating knife. 

“I have been up stairs, looking about,”! 


pursued Father Absinthe ; “I saw a bed 
up there, and we can mount guard here, 
by turns. 

With an imperious gesture, Lecoq in- 
terrupted him. 

“You must give up that idea Father 
Absinthe ; we are not here to sleep, but 
to collect information — to make the most 
careful researches, to note all the prob- 
abilities. In a few hours the commis- 
sioner of police, the physician and the 
coroner will be here. I wish to have a 
report ready for them.” 

This proposition seemed anything but 
pleasing to the old policeman. 

“Eh I what is the use of that?” he ex- 
claimed. “I know the General. When 
he goes in search of the commissioner, as 
he has this evening, there is nothing more 
to be done. Do you think that you see 
anything that he did not see?” 

“I think that Gevrol, like every one 
else, is liable to be mistaken. I think 
that he believes too implicitly in what 
seems to him evidence. I could swear 
that this affair is not what it seems to be ; 
and I am sure that we can, if we will, 
discover the mystery which is concealed 
by appearances.” 

Though the vehemence of the young 
officer was intense, he did not succeed in 
making any impression upon his com- 
panion, who, with a yawn that threatened 
to dislocate his jaws, replied : 

“Perhaps you are right; but I am 
going to bed. This need not prevent you 
from searching around, however ; and if 
you find anything you can wake me.” 

Lecoq made no sign of impatience ; nor 
in reality was he impatient. It afforded 
him the opportunity for which he was 
longing. 

“You will give me a moment first,” he 
remarked. “In five minutes, by your 
watch, I will promise to let you put your 
finger on the mystery that I suspect 
here.” 

“Well, go on for five minutes.” 

“After that you shall be free, Father 
Absinthe. Only it is clear that if I 
work it out alone, I alone shall pocket 
the reward that a solution of the mystery 
will certainly bring.” 

At the word “reward” the old police- 
man pricked up his ears. He was dazzled 
by the vision of an infinite number of 
bottles of the greenish liquor whose 
name he bore. 

“Convince me, then,” said he, taking 
a seat upon a stool, which he had lifted 
from the floor. 

Lecoq remained standing in front of 
him. 

“To begin with,” lie remarked ; “whom 
do you suppose the person we have just 
arrested to be?” 

“A porter, probably, or a vagabond.” 

“That is to say, a man belonging to 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


II 


the lowest order of society; conse- 
quently, a man without education.” 

“Certainly.” 

Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon 
the eyes of his companion He distrus- 
ted his own powers, as is usual with per- 
sons of real merit, and he felt that if he 
could succeed in making his convictions 
penetrate the obtuse mind of his compan- 
ion, it would prove the justice of these con- 
victions. 

u And now,” he continued, “ what 
would you say if I should prove to you 
that this young man had received an ex- 
cellent, even refined education.” 

“I should reply that it was very extra- 
ordinary. I should reply that — but what 
a fool 1 am 1 You have not proved it to 
me yet.” 

“ But I can do so very easily. Do you re- 
member the words that he uttered as he 
fell?” 

“ Yes, I remember them perfectly. He 
said : 4 It is the Prussians who are com- 
ing.’ ” 

“ What do you suppose he meant by 
that?” 

“ What a question ! I should suppose 
that he did not like Prussians, and that 
he supposed he was offering us a terrible 
insult.” 

Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this 
response. 

“Ah, well! Father Absinthe,” he said, 
gravely, “ you are wrong, quite wrong. 
And that this man has an education su- 
perior to his apparent position is proved 
by the fact that you did not understand 
his meaning, nor his intention. It was 
this single phrase that made the case clear 
to me.” 

The physiognomy of Father Absinthe 
expressed the strange and comical per- 
plexity of a man who is so thoroughly 
mystified that he knows not whether to 
laugh or to be angry. After reflecting a 
little, he decided to be angry. 

“ You are rather too young to impose 
upon an old man like me,” he remarked. 
“I do not like boasters ” 

“One moment !” interrupted Lecoq ; “al- 
low me to explain. You have certainly 
heard of a terrible battle which resulted 
in one of the greatest defeats that ever 
happened to France — the battle of Water- 
loo?” 

“ I do not see the connection — ” 

“ Answer, if you please.” 

“Yes — then!” 

“ Very well ; you must know then, pa- 
pa, that for some time victory perched 
upon the banners of France. The Eng- 
lish began to fall back, and already the 
emperor exclaimed: “We have them!” 
when suddenly on the right a little in the 
rear, troops were seen advancing. It was ! 
the Prussian army. The battle of Water- 
loo was lost.” 

In all his life, worthy Father Absinthe 


had never made such strenuous efforts to 
understand anything. In this case they 
were not wholly useless , for he half rose 
in his chair, and with the tone in which 
Archimedes cried; “I have found it I” he 
exclaimed : 

“ I understand. The man’s words were 
only an allusion.” 

“ It is as you have said,” remarked Le- 
coq, approvingly. “But I had not fii> 
ished. If the emperor was thrown into 
consternation by the appearance of the 
Prussians, it was because he was momen- 
tarily expecting the arrival of one of his 
own generals from the same direction — 
Grouchy— with thirty-five thousand men. 
So if this man’s allusion was exact and 
complete, he was not expecting an enemy, 
but a friend. Now draw your own con- 
clusions.” 

Amazed, but convinced, his compan- 
ion opened to their widest extent the eyes 
that had been heavy with sleep a few mo- 
ments before. 

“ Mon Dieu !” he murmured, “if you put 
it in that way ! But I forget ; you must 
have seen something, as you were looking 
through the cracks of the shutter.” 

The young man shook his head. 

“ Upon my honor,” he declared, “ I saw 
nothing save the struggle between the 
murderer and the poor devil in the garb 
of a soldier. It was that sentence alone 
that aroused my attention.” 

“Wonderful! prodigious!” exclaimed 
the astonished old man. 

“ I will add that reflection has confirmed 
my suspicions. I asked myself why this 
man, instead of fleeing, should have wait- 
ed and remained there, at that door, to 
parley with us.” 

With a bound, Father Absinthe was 
upon his feet. 

“ Why?” he interrupted ; “ because he 
had accomplices, and he wished to give 
them time to escape. Ah ! I understand 
it all now.” 

A triumphant smile parted Lecoq’s lips. 

1 “ That is what I said to myself,” he re- 
plied, “ and now it is easy to verify my 
suspicions There is snow outside, is 
there not?” 

It was not necessary to say any more. 
The elder officer seized the light, and fol- 
lowed by his companion, he hastened to 
the back door of the house, which opened 
into a small garden. 

In this sheltered enclosure the snow 
had not melted , and upon its white sur- 
face numerous foot-prints lay, like dark 
stains. 

Without hesitation, Lecoq threw him- 
self upon his knees in the snow, in order 
to examine them; he rose again almost 
immediately. 

“These indentations were not made by 
the feet of men,” said he. “There have 
been women here.” 


12 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


CHAPTER IV. 

Obstinate men of Father Absinthe’s 
stamp, who are always inclined to differ 
with the opinions of others, are the very 
people who end in madly adopting them. 

When an idea has at last penetrated 
their empty brains, they install it there 
magisterially, and dwell upon it, and 
develop it until it exceeds the bounds of 
reason. 

Hence the veteran of the service was 
now much more strongly convinced than 
his companion, that the usually clever 
Gevrol was mistaken, and he laughed 
him to scorn. 

On hearing Lecoq affirm that women 
had taken part in the horrible scene at 
the Poivriere, his joy was extreme. 

“A fine affair!” he exclaimed; “an 
excellent case !” 

And suddenly recollecting a maxim 
that has been handed down from the 
time of Cicero, he added, in sententious 
tones : 

“Who holds the woman holds the 

cause !” 

Lecoq did not deign to reply. He was 
standing upon the threshold, leaning 
against the casing of the door, his hand 
pressed to his forehead, as motionless as 
a statue. 

The discovery which he had just made, 
and which so delighted Father Absinthe, 
filled him with consternation. It was the 
death of his hopes, the annihilation of 
the ingenious structure which his imag- 
ination had built upon the foundation of 
a single sentence. There was no longer 
any mystery. No celebrity to be gained 
by a brilliant stroke ! 

For the presence of two women in this 
vile den explained everything in the most 
natural and commonplace fashion. 

Their presence explained the quarrel, 
the testimony of Widow Chupin, the 
dying declaration of the pretended sol- 
dier. 

The behavior of the murderer was also 
explained. He had remained to cover 
the retreat of the two women ; he had 
sacrificed himself in order to save them, 
an act of that chivalrous gallantry so 
common in the French character, that 
even the scoundrels of the barneres were 
not entirely»destitute of it. 

But the strange allusion to the battle 
of Waterloo remained unexplained. But 
what did that prove now? Nothing, sim- 
ply nothing. And who could say how 
low an unworthy passion might cause a 
man even of birth and breeding to 
descend? And the carnival afforded an 
opportunity for the parties to disguise 
themselves. 

But while Lecoq was turning and twist- 
ing all these probabilities in his mind, 
Father Absinthe became impatient. 


| “Are we going to remain here until 
doomsday?” he asked. “Are we to pause 
just at the moment when our search has 
been productive of such brilliant re- 
sults?” 

“Brilliant results !” These words stung 
the young man’s soul a§, deeply as the 
keenest irony could have done. 

“Leave me alone,” he replied, gruffly ; 
“and, above all, do not walk about the 
garden. You will spoil the foot-prints.” 

His companion swore a little ; then he, 
too, became silent. He submitted to the 
irresistible ascendancy of a superior will 
and intelligence. 

Lecoq was engaged in following out 
his course of reasoning. 

“These are probably the events as they 
occurred,” he thought. 

“The murderer, leaving the ball at the 
Rainbow,, a public house not far from 
here, near the fortifications, came.to this 
saloon, accompanied by two women. He 
found three men drinking here, who 
either began teasing him, or who dis- 
played too much gallantry to his com- 
panions. He became angry. The others 
threatened him; he was one against 
three; he was armed; he became wild 
with rage and fired ” 

He checked himself, and in an instant 
after he added, aloud : 

“But was it the murderer who brought 
these women here? If he is tried, this 
will be the important point. It is neces- 
sary to obtain information on the sub- 
ject.” 

He immediately went back into the 
house, closely followed by his colleague, 
and began an examination of the foot 
prints about the door that Gevrol had 
forced open. 

Labor lost. There was but little snow 
on the ground about the entrance of the 
hovel, and so many persons had passed 
in and out that Lecoq could discover 
nothing. 

What a disappointment after his pa- 
tient hopes ! 

Lecoq could have cried with rage. He 
saw the opportunity for which he had 
sighed so long indefinitely postponed. 
He fancied he could hear Gevrol’s coarse 
sarcasms. 

“ Enough of this,” he murmured, under 
his breath. “The General was right, 
and I am a fool !” 

He was so positively convinced that one 
could do no more than discover the cir- 
cumstances of some commonplace, vulgar 
broil, that he began to wonder if it would 
not be wise to renounce his search and 
take a nap, while awaiting the coming of 
the commissioner of police. 

But Father Absinthe was no longer of 
this opinion. 

This worthy man, who was far from 
suspecting the reflections in which his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


13 


companion was indulging, could not ex- 
plain his inaction. 

44 Ah, well! my boy,” said he, “have 
you lost your wits? This is losing time, 
it seems to me. The justice will arrive in 
a few hours, and what report shall we 
present? As for me, if you desire to go 
to sleep, I shall pursue my investigations 
alone.” 

Disappointed as he was, the young 
police officer could not repress a smile. 
He recognized his own exhortations of a 
few moments before. It was the old man 
who had suddenly become intrepid. 

“To work, then!” he sighed, like a 
man who, while foreseeing defeat, wishes, 
at least, to have no cause to reproach 
himself. 

He found it, however, extremely diffi- 
cult to follow the foot-prints in the open 
air by the uncertain light of a candle, 
which was extinguished by the least 
breath of wind. 

“It is impossible,” said Lecoq; “I 
wonder if there is not a lantern in the 
house. If we could only lay our hands 
upon it !” 

They searched everywhere, and, at last, 
up-stairs in the Widow Chupin’s own 
apartment, they found a well-trimmed 
lantern, so small and close that it cer- 
tainly had never been intended for hon- 
est purposes. 

“A regular burglar’s implement,” 
said Father Absinthe, with a coarse 
laugh. 

The implement was useful in any case ; 
the two men were agreed upon that when 
they returned to the garden and recom- 
menced their investigations systemati- 
cally. 

They advanced very slowly and with 
extreme caution. The old man carefully 
held the lantern in the best position, and 
Lecoq, on his knees, studied each foot- 
print with the attention of a chiromancer 
striving to read the future in the hand of 
a rich client. 

A new examination assured Leeoq that 
he had been correct in his first supposi- 
tion. * It was plain that two women had 
quitted the Poivriere by this door. They 
had departed running; this was proved 
by the length of the steps and also by the 
shape of the foot-prints. 

The difference in the tracks left by the 
two fugitives was so remarkable, that it 
did not escape Father Absinthe’s eyes. 

“ Cristi /” he muttered; “one of these 
jades can boast of having a pretty foot 
at the end of her leg !” 

He was right. One of the tracks be- 
trayed a small, coquettish and slender 
foot, clad in an elegant high-heeled boot 
with a narrow sole and an arched instep. 

The other denoted a broad, short foot, 
that grew wider towards the end, and 
which was encased in a strong, low shoe. 

This was indeed a clue. Lecoq’s hopes 


revived ; so eagerly does a man welcome 
any supposition that is in accordance 
with his desires. 

Trembling with anxiety, he went to 
examine other foot-prints a short distance 
from these ; and an excited exclamation 
broke from his lips. 

“What is it?” eagerly inquired the 
other agent; “what do you see?” 

“Come and look for yourself, papa; 
see there.” 

The good man bent down, and his sur- 
prise was so great that he almost dropped 
the lantern. 

“Oh!” said he, in a stifled voice, “a 
man’s foot-print J” 

“Exactly. And this fellow wore the 
finest of boots. See that imprint, how 
clear, how neat it is !” 

Worthy Father Absinthe was furiously 
scratching his ear, his usual method of 
quickening his rather slow wits. 

But it fsems to me,” he ventured at 
last, “that this individual was not com- 
ing/row this ill-fated hovel. 

“Of course not; the direction of the 
foot tells you that. No, he was not go- 
ing from here, he was coming here. But 
he did not pass beyond the spot where 
we are now standing. He was advancing 
on tip-toe with outstretched neck and 
listening ears, when, on reaching this 
spot, he heard some noise; fear seized 
him, and he fled.” 

“Or rather, the women were going 
out as he was coming, and — ” 

“No, the women were outside the gar- 
den when he entered it.” 

This assertion seemed far too auda- 
cious to suit Lecoq's companion, who re- 
marked: “ One cannot be sure of that.” 

“I am sure of it, however; and can 
prove it conclusively. You doubt it, papa? 
It is because your eyes are growing 
old. Bring your lantern a little nearer — 
yes, here it is — our man placed his large 
foot upon one of the marks made by the 
woman with the small foot and has al- 
most effaced it.” 

This unexceptionable bit of circum- 
stantial evidence stupefied the old police- 
man. 

“ Now, continued Lecoq, “ could this 
man have been the accomplice whom the 
murderer was expecting? Might it not 
have been some strolling vagrant whose 
attention was attracted by the two pis- 
tol shots? This is what we must ascer- 
tain. And we 'will ascertain it Come !” 

A wooden fence of lattice-work, a trifle 
more than three feet high, similar to 
that which prevents access to the rail- 
way trains, was all that separated the 
Widow Chupin’s garden from the waste 
land that surrounded it. 

When Lecoq made the circuit of the 
house to cut off the escape of the mur- 
derer, he had encountered this obstacle, 
and, fearing lest he should arrive too 


14 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


late, he had leaped the barrier, to the 
great detriment of his pantaloons, with- 
out even asking if there were not a gate- 
way. 

One did exist, however. A light gate 
of lattice-work similar to the fence, turn- 
ing upon iron hinges and kept closed by 
a wooden button, allowed one to enter 
or depart from this side of the garden. 

It was straight to this gate that these 
footprints in the snow led the two police- 
men. 

Some new thought must have struck 
the younger man, for he paused sudden- 
ly- 

44 Ah ! ” he murmured, 44 these two wo- 
men did not come to Poivriere this even- 
ing for the first time.” 

44 Why do you think that, my boy?” 
inquired Father Absinthe. 

44 1 could almost swear it. How, un- 
less they were in the habit of coming to 
this den, could they have been aware of the 
existence of this gate? Could they have 
discovered it this dark and foggy night? 
No; for I, who can, without boasting, 
say that I have good eyes — I did not see 
it.” 

44 Ah ! yes, that is true ! ” 

44 These two women, however, came 
here without hesitating, without diverg- 
ing from a straight line ; and note that to 
do this, it was necessary for them to cross 
the garden diagonally.” 

The veteran would have given some- 
thing if he could have found some ob- 
jection to offer; but unfortunately he 
could find none. 

44 Upon my word!” he exclaimed, 
44 yours is a droll way of proceeding. 
You are only a conscript ; I am a veteran 
in the service, and have assisted in more 
affairs of this sort than you are years old, 
but never have I seen — ■ 

44 Nonsense ! ” interrupted Lecoq, 44 you 
will see much more. For example, I can I 
prove to you that, although the women 
knew the exact position of the gate, the 
man knew it only by hearsay.” 

44 The proof !” 

44 The fact is easily demonstrated, papa. 
Study the man’s footprints, and you, 
who are very sharp, will see at once that 
he deviated greatly from the straight 
course. He was in such doubt, that he 
was obliged to search for the gate with 
his hand stretched out before him — and 
his fingers have left their imprint on the 
thin covering of snow that lies upon the 
upper railing of the fence.” 

The old man would have been glad to 
verify this statement for himself, as he 
said ; but Lecoq was in a hurry. 

44 Let us go on, let us go on ! ” said he. 
44 You can verify my assertions some 
other time.” 

They left the garden and followed the 
footprints that led them to ward the outer 


boulevards, inclinding a little to the right 
in the direction of the Rue de Patay. 

Now there was no longer any need of 
close attention. No one, save the fugi- 
tive, had crossed this lonely waste since 
the last fall of snow. A child could have 
followed the track, so clear and distinct 
was it. 

Four impressions, very unlike in char- 
acter, formed the track ; two were those 
left by the women; the other two, one 
going and one returning, had been made 
by the man. 

On "several occasions the latter had 
placed his foot exactly on the foot-prints 
left by the two women, half effacing 
them, thus doing away with all doubts as 
to the precise moment in which he had 
come. 

About a hundred yards from the Poiv- 
riere, Lecoq suddenly seized his col- 
league’s arm. 

44 Halt!” he command<d, 44 we have 
reached a good place ; Lai see unmis- 
takable proofs.” 

The spot was an abandoned lumber- 
yard, or rather a reservation belonging 
to a boat-builder. The ground was strewn 
with large blocks of granite, some chis- 
eled, some in the rough, and with many 
long planks and logs of wood. 

Before one of these planks, whose sur- 
face had evidently been wiped off, all 
these footprints came together, mingling 
■confusedly. 

44 Here,” declared the young detective, 
44 our fugitives met this man and took 
counsel with him. One of the women, 
the one with the little feet, sat down 
upon this log.” 

4 4 We should assure ourselves of this 
more fully,” said Father Absinthe, in an 
oracular tone. 

But his companion cut short these de- 
sires for verification. 

44 You — my old friend,” said he, 44 are 
going to do me the kindness to keep per- 
fectly still ; pass me the lantern and do 
not move.” 

Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly be- 
come so imperious that his colleague 
dared offer no resistance. 

Like a soldier at the command to halt, 
he remained erect, motionless and mute, 
following the movements of his friend 
with a curious and wondering eye. 

Quick in his motions, and understand- 
ing how to manoeuvre the lantern in ac- 
cordance with his wishes, the young po- 
liceman explored the surroundings in a 
very short space of time. 

A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey 
would have been less alert, less discern- 
ing, less agile than he. 

He came and went, turned, came back 
again, hurried on, or paused without any 
apparent reason ; he scrutinized, he ques- 
tioned everything ; the earth, the logs of 
wood, the blocks of stone, and even the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


15 


most insignificant objects; sometimes 
standing, but oftener on his knees, some- 
times flat upon his belly, his face so near 
the ground that his breath must have 
melted the snow. 

He had drawn a tape-line from his 
pocket: he used it with a carpenter’s 
dexterity, and measured, measured, meas- 
ured. 

And all these movements were accom- 
panied with the wild gestures of a mad- 
man, interspersed with oaths or short 
laughs, with exclamations of disappoint- 
ment or of delight. 

After a quarter of an hour of this 
strange exercise, he returned to Father 
Absinthe, placed the lantern on a stone, 
wiped his hands on his pocket-handker- 
chief, and said : 

“Now I know all.” 

“Well, that is saying a great deal!” 

“When I say all, I mean all that is con- 
nected with this episode of the drama 
which ended in blood in that hovel there. 
This expanse of earth, covered with 
snow, is an immense white page upon 
which the people we are in search of 
have written, not only their movements 
and their goings and comings, but their 
secret thoughts, the hopes and anxieties 
that agitated them. What do these foot- 
prints say to you, papa? To me they 
are as much alive as the persons who 
made them; they breathe, they speak, 
they accuse!” 

The old officer was saying to himself : 

“Certainly, this fellow is intelligent; 
undeniably, he is shrewd ; but he is very 
disagreeable.” 

“These,” pursued Lecoq, “are the 
facts as I have read them. When the 
murderer repaired to the Poivriere with 
the two women, his companion — I should 
call him his accomplice — came here to 
wait. He was a man of middle age and 
tall, wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown 
overcoat, was probably married, as he 
had a wedding-ring on the little finger of 
his right hand ” 

The despairing gestures of his compan- 
ion obliged the speaker to pause. 

This description of a person whose ex- 
istence had but just now been demon- 
strated, these precise details given in a 
tone of absolute certainty, overturned all 
of Father Absinthe’s ideas completely, 
and increased his perplexity. 

“This is not well,” he growled, “this 
is not kind. You are poking fun at me. 
I take the thing seriously; I listen to 
you, I obey you m everything, and this is 
the way you mock me. We find a clue, 
and instead of following it up, you stop 
to relate all these absurd stories.” 

“No,” replied his companion, “I am 
not jesting, and I have told you nothing 
of which I am not absolutely sure noth- 
ing that is not strictly and indisputably 
true.” - 


“And you would have me believe ” 

“Fear nothing, papa ; I would not have 
you do violence to your convictions. 
When I have told you my reasons, and 
my means of information, you will laugh 
at the simplicity of the theory that seems 
so incomprehensible to you now.” 

“Go on, then,” said the good man, in a 
tone of resignation. 

“We had decided, my friend, that the 
accomplice mounted guard here. The 
time seemed long, and in order to relieve 
his impatience, he paced to and fro the 
length of this log of wood, and occasion- 
ally paused in his monotonous prom- 
enade to listen. Hearing nothing, he 
stamped his foot, doubtless exclaiming : 
‘What the devil has happened to him 
down there !’ He had made about thirty 
turns (I have counted them), when a 
sound broke the stillness — the two women 
were coming.” 

On hearing Leccq’s recital, all the con- 
flicting sentiments that are awakened in 
a child’s mind by a fairy tale — doubt, 
faith, anxiety, and hope — filled Father 
Absinthe’s heart. 

What should he believe? what should 
he refuse to believe? He did not know. 
How was he to tell the true from the 
false among all these equally surprising 
assertions ? 

On the other hand the gravity of his 
companion, which certainly was not 
feigned, dismissed all idea of pleasantry. 

Then curiosity began to torture him. 

“We had reached the point where the 
women made their appearance,” said he. 

u Mon Dieu! yes,” responded Lecoq; 
“but here all certainty ceases; no more 
proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have 
every reason to believe that our fugitives 
left the drinking saloon before the begin- 
ning of the fight, before the cries that at- 
tracted our attention. Who were they? 
I can only conjecture. I suspect, how- 
ever, that they were not equals in rank. 
I am inclined to think that one was the 
mistress, the other her servant.” 

“That is proved,” ventured the older 
man, “by the great difference in their 
feet and in their shoes.” 

This shrewd observation elicited a smile 
from the young man in spite of his ab- 
straction. 

“This difference,” he replied, serious- 
ly, “is something; but it was not that 
which decided me in my opinion. If 
greater or less perfection of the ex- 
tremities regulated social distinctions, 
many mistresses would be servants. What 
struck me was this : 

“When the two women rushed wildly 
from Mother Chupin’s house, the woman 
with the small feet sprang across the 
garden with one bound, sue darted on 
some distance in advance of the other. 
The horror of the situation, the vilenesa 
of the den, the horror of the scandal, the 


16 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


thought of a place of safety, inspired 
her with marvelous energy. 

“But her strength, as often happens 
with delicate and nervous women, lasted 
only a few seconds. She was not half 
way from here to the Poivriere when her 
speed relaxed, her limbs trembled. Ten 
steps farther on she tottered and almost 
fell. Some steps further, and she became 
so exhausted that she let go her hold 
upon her skirts; they trailed uj>on the 
snow,' tracing a faint circle there. 

“Then the woman with the broad foot 
came to her aid. She seized her compan- 
ion around the waist; she dragged her 
along ; their footprints here are mingled 
confusedly ; then seeing that her friend 
was about to fall, she caught her up in 
her strong arms and carried her — and the 
foot-prints made by the woman with the 
small feet cease.” 

Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by 
inventing this story? Was this scene 
anything but a work of the imagination? 

Was this accent of deep and sincere 
conviction which he imparted to his 
words only feigned ? 

Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but 
he thought of a way in wilich he might 
satisfy his uncertainty. 

He caught up the lantern and hurried 
off to examine these foot-prints wdiich he 
had not known how to read, which had 
been speechless to him, but which had 
yielded their secret to another. 

He was obliged to agree with his com- 
panion. All that Lecoq had described was 
written there ; he saw the confused foot- 
prints, the circle made by the sweeping 
skirts, the cessation of the" tiny imprints. 

On his return, his countenance betrayed 
a respectful and astonished admiration, 
and it was with a shade of embarrass- 
ment that he said : 

“You can scarcely blame an old man 
for being a little like St. Thomas. I have 
touched it with my fingers, and now I 
am content to follow you.” 

The young policeman could not, in- 
deed, blame his colleague for his incred- 
ulity. 

“Then,” Lecoq continued, “the accom- 
plice, w r ho had heard the fugitives com- 
ing ran to meet them, and he aided the 
woman with the large feet in carrying 
her companion. The latter must have 
been really ill, for the accomplice took 
off his hat and used it in brushing the 
snow from this plank. Then, thinking 
the surface was not yet dry enough, lie 
wiped it with the skirt of his overcoat. 
Were these civilities pure gallantry, or 
the usual attentions of an inferior? I 
have asked myself that question. 

“This much, however, is certain : while 
the woman with the small feet was re- 
covering her strength, half reclining 
upon this board, the other took the 
accomplice a little to one side, five or six 


steps away to the left, just by that enor- 
mous block of granite. 

“There she talked with him, and, as he 
listened, the man leaned upon the snow- 
covered stone. His hand left a very dis- 
tinct imprint there. Then, as the con- 
versation continued, he rested his elbow 
upon the snowy surface.” 

Like all men of limited intelligence, 
Father Absinthe had suddenly passed 
from unreasoning distrust to unquestion- 
ing confidence. 

Henceforth he would believe anything, 
from the same reason that had, at first, 
made liiin believe nothing. 

With no idea of the bounds of human 
reasoning and penetration, he saw no 
limits to the conjectural genius of his 
companion. 

With perfect faith, therefore, he in- 
quired : 

“And what was the accomplice saying 
to the woman with the broad shoes?” 

If Lecoq smiled at this naivete, the 
other did not suspect it. 

“It is rather difficult for me to answer 
that question,” he replied. “I think, 
however, that the woman was explaining 
to the man the immensity and imminence 
of the danger that threatened his com- 
panion, and that they were trying to de- 
vise some means to rescue him from it. 
Perhaps she brought him orders given by 
the murderer. It is certain that she 
ended by beseeching the accomplice to 
run to the Poivriere and see what was 
passing there. And he did so, for his 
tracks start from this block of granite ” 

“And only to think,” exclaimed the 
officer, “that we were in the hovel at 
that very moment. A word from Gevrol, 
and we might have had handcuffs on the 
whole gang ! How unfortunate !” 

Lecoq was not sufficiently disinterested 
to share his companion's regret. 

On the contrary, he gave heartfelt 
thanks for Gevrol’ s blunder. Had it not 
been for that, how would he ever have 
found an opportunity of interesting him- 
self in an affair that grew more and more 
mysterious, but which he hoped to 
fathom finally. 

“To conclude,” he resumed, “the ac- 
complice soon returned, he had wit- 
nessed the scene, he was afraid, and he 
hastened back He feared that the 
thought of exploring the premises might 
enter the minds of the police. It was to 
the lady with small feet that he addressed 
himself. He explained the necessity of 
flight, and told her that even a moment's 
delay might be fatal. At his words, she 
summoned all her energy ; she rose, and 
hastened, clinging to the arm of her com- 
panion. 

Did the man indicate the route they 
were to take, or did they know it them- 
selves? This much is certain ; he accoin- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


17 


panied them some distance, in order to 
watch over them. 

“But above the duty of protecting 
these women, he had a still more sacred 
duty to perform — that of succoring his 
accomplice, if possible. He retraced his 
steps, passed here again, and the last 
foot-print that I can discover leads in the 
direction of the Rue du Chateau-des-Ren- 
tiers. He wished to know what would 
become of the murderer, and went to 
place himself in his path.” 

4 Like a dilettante who can scarcely re- 
strain his applause until the close of the 
morceau that delights him, Father Ab- 
sinthe had been unable to repress his ad- 
miration entirely. 

But it was not until Lecoq ceased speak- 
ing that he gave full vent to his enthu- 
siasm. 

“‘Here is a detective!” he exclaimed. 
“And they say that Gevrol is shrewd ! 
What has he ever done to compare with 
this? Ah ! shall 1 tell you what I think? 
Very well. In comparison with you, the 
General is only John the Baptist.” 

Certainly the flatteryvwas gross, but it 
was impossible to doubt its sincerity. 
This w r as the first time that the balmy 
dew of praise had fallen upon Lecoq’s 
vanity , it delighted him 

“Nonsense,” he replied, modestly; 
“you are too kind, papa. After all, what 
have I done that is so very clever? 1 
told you that the man was of middle age. 
It was not difficult to see that after one 
had examined his heavy and rather drag- 
ging step. I told you that he was tall — 
an easy matter. When I saw that he had 
been leaning upon that block of granite 
there to the left, I measured the afore- 
said block. It was sixty-seven metres in 
height, consequently a man who could 
rest his elbow upon it must be at least 
six feet high. The impress of his hand 
proves that I am not mistaken. On see- 
ing that he had brushed away the snow 
which covered the plank, I asked myself 
what he had used; I thought that it 
might be his cap, and the mark left by 
the visor proves that I was right. 

“Finally, if I have discovered the color 
and the material of his overcoat, it is 
only because when he wiped off the wet 
board, some splinters of the wood tore off 
a few tiny flakes of brown wool, which 
I found, and which will figure in the 
trial. But what does* this amount to, 
after all? Nothing. We have discovered 
only the first elements of the affair. We 
hold the clue, however ; we will follow 
it to the end. Onward, then !” 

The old officer was electrified, and, like 
an echo, he repeated : 

“Forward I” 


CHAPTER V. 

That night the vagabonds, who had 
taken refuge in the neighborhood of the 
Poivriere, slept but little, and that an 
uneasy slumber, broken by sudden starts, 
and troubled with frightful dreams of a 
descent of the police upon them. 

Awakened by the report of the mur- 
derer’s pistol, and supposing it the result 
of a collision between the police and 
some of theii own comrades, most of the 
frequenters of the locality prowled about 
eagerly listening and watching, and ready 
to take flight at the least sign of danger. 

At first they could discover nothing at 
all suspicious. 

But later, about two o’clock in the 
morning, just as they were beginning to 
feel secure again, the fog lifted a little, 
and they witnessed a phenomenon well 
calculated to arouse their anxiety. 

Upon the unoccupied tract of land, 
which the people of that quarter called 
“the plain,” a small but very bright light 
was seen describing the most capricious 
evolutions. 

It moved here and there without any 
apparent aim, tracing the most inexpli- 
cable zig-zags, sometimes sinking to the 
earth, sometimes rising, sometimes mo- 
tionless, and the next second flying off 
like a ball. 

In spite of the place and the season 
of the year, the less ignorant among 
the vagabonds believed it to be the light 
of the ignis-fatuus , one of those luminous 
meteors that rise from the marshes and 
float about in the atmosphere at the bid- 
ding of the wind. 

This ignis-fatuus was the lantern by 
whose light the tw r o policemen were pur- 
suing their investigations. 

Before leaving the cabin where he had 
so suddenly revealed himself to his first 
disciple, Lecoq found himself involved 
in a cruel perplexity. 

He had not the boldness and prompt- 
ness of decision that is the gift of a pros- 
perous past ; and he was hesitating be- 
tween two undertakings, which were 
equally reasonable, and each of which 
offered equally strong probabilities of 
success. 

He stood there between two paths, that 
made by the two women on the one side, 
that made by the accomplice on the other 

Which should he take? For he could 
not hope to follow both. 

Seated upon the plank where the 
woman had rested a few moments before, 
with his hand pressed upon his forehead, 
he reflected ; he weighed his chances. 

“If I follow the man l shall learn no- 
thing that I do not know already. He 
has gone to hover round the party ; he 
has followed them at a distance ; he has 
seen them lock up his accomplice, and he 


2 


18 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


is undoubtedly prowling around the sta- 
tion-house. If I hurried in pursuit could 
I hope to overtake him, to capture him? 
No ; too long a time has elapsed.” 

Father Absinthe lisetned to the mono- 
logue with intense curiosity, as anxious 
as an unsophisticated person who is ques- 
tioning a clairvoyant in regard to some 
lost articles, and who is awaiting the re- 
sponse of the oracle. 

“To follow the woman,” continued the 
young man, “to what would that lead? 
Perhaps to an important discovery ; per- 
haps to nothing.” 

He preferred the unknown with all its 
chances of failure, and all its chances of 
success, as well. 

He rose ; his course was decided. 

“Ah, well!” he exclaimed, “I choose 
the unknown. We are going, Father Ab- 
sinthe, to follow the foot-prints of these 
two women, and wherever they lead us 
we will go.” 

Inspired with equal ardor they began 
their walk. At the end of the path upon 
which they had entered they perceived, 
as in a magic glass, the one, the fruits, 
the other, the glory of success. 

They hurried forward. At first it was 
only play to follow the distinct foot- 
prints that led towards the Seine. 

But it was not long before they were 
obliged to proceed more slowly. 

On leaving the waste ground they ar- 
rived at the outer limits of civilization, 
so to speak; and strange foot-prints 
mingled constantly with the foot-prints 
of the fugitives, mixking with them, and 
sometimes effacing them. 

In many localities, on account of ex- 
posure, or the nature of the soil, the 
thaw had done its work, and there were 
large patches of ground entirely free 
from snow. 

In such cases they lost the clue, and 
it took all Lecoq’s sagacity, and all his 
companion’s good will, to find it again. 

On such occasions Father Absinthe 
planted his cane in the earth, near the 
last foot-print that had been discovered, 
and Lecoq and himself hunted on the 
ground around this starting point, after 
the fashion of blood-hounds who have 
been thrown off the scent. 

Then it was that the lantern moved 
about so strangely. 

More than a dozen times, in spite of all 
their efforts, they would have lost the 
clue entirely had it not been for the ele- 

g ant shoes worn by the lady with the 
ttle feet. 

These had such small and extremely 
high heels that the impression they left 
could not be mistaken. They sank down 
three or four inches in the snow, or in 
the mud, and their tell-tale impress re- 
mained as clear and distinct as that of a 
seal upon wax. 

Thanks to these heels, the pursuers 


were able to discover that the two fugi- 
tives had not gone up the Rue de Patay, 
as might have been supposed. Probably 
they had considered the street too much 
frequented, and too well lighted. 

They had only crossed it, just below 
the Rue de la Croix-Rouge, and had pro- 
fited by an empty space between two 
houses to regain the open ground. 

“Certainly these women were well ac- 
quainted with the lay of the land,” mur- 
mured Lecoq. 

They did indeed know the topography 
so well that, on quitting the Rue de Patay, 
they had suddently turned to the right, 
in order to avoid several large ditches, 
which had been opened by persons who 
were seeking earth to be used in the man- 
ufacture of brick. 

But the trail was recovered, and they 
followed it as far as the Rue du Cheval- 
eret. 

Here the foot-prints abruptly ceased. 

Lecoq discovered eight or ten foot- 
marks left by the woman who wore the 
broad shoes, but that was all. 

The earth, it is true, was not in a con- 
dition to be of much assistance in an ex- 
ploration of this nature. There had been 
a great deal of passing in the Rue du 
Chevaleret, and there was but little snow 
left on the pavement, and the middle of 
the street was transformed into a river of 
slush. 

“Did these people recollect, at last, 
that the snow might betray them ? Did 
they take the middle of the street?” 
growled the young officer. 

Certainly they could not have crossed 
to a vacant space as they had done just 
before, for on the other side of the street 
extended the long wall of a factory. 

“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we 
have our labor for our pains.” 

But Lecoq possessed a temperament 
that refused to acknowledge defeat. 

Animated by the cold anger of a man 
who sees the object which he was about 
to seize disappear from before his very 
eyes, he recommenced his search, and 
was well repaid for his efforts. 

“I understand !” he cried suddenly “I 
comprehend — I see!” 

Father Absinthe drew near. He did not 
see nor divine anything ; but he no lon- 
ger doubted the powers of his companion. 

“Look there,” said Lecoq; “what do 
you see?” 

“Marks left by the wheels of a carriage 
that turned here.” 

“Very well, papa; these tracks explain 
all. When they reached this spot, our fu- 
gitives saw the light of an approaching 
fiacre , which was returning to Paris. It 
was empty ; it was their salvation. They 
waited here, and when it came nearer they 
called to the coachman. Doubtless they 
promised him a generous pour boire ; this 
is evident, since he consented to go back 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


19 


Jlgain. He turned short here ; they en- 
tered the carriage, and that is why these 
foot-prints go no further.” 

This explanation was not pleasing to 
his companion. 

“Have we made any great progress now 
that we know that?” he asked. 

Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to 
shrug his shoulder. 

“Did you expect that the tracks made 
by these fugitives would lead us through 
Paris and up to their very doors?” he 
asked. 

“No ; but — ” 

“Then what would you ask more? Do 
you think that I shall not know how to 
find this coachman to-morrow? He was 
returning with his empty carriage, his 
day’s work was ended ; hence, his stable 
is in this neighborhood. Do you suppose 
that he will have forgotten that he took 
up two persons on the Rue du Chevaleret? 
He will tell us where he deposited them ; 
but that will not do us any good, for they, 
of course, have not given him their true 
address. But he can give us a description 
of them, tell us how they were dressed 
and describe their appearance, their man- 
ner, and their age. And with that, and 
what we already know ” 

An eloquent gesture expressed the re- 
mainder of his thought ; then he added ; 

“We must now go back to the Poivriere, 
and go quickly. And you my friend, 
may now extinguish your lantern.” 

CHAPTER VI. 


While doing his best to keep pace with 
his companion, who was in such haste to 
get back to the Poivriere that he almost 
ran, Father Absinthe's thoughts were as 
busy as his legs, and an entirely new idea 
was awakened in his mind. 

During the twenty-five years that he 
had been connected with the police force, 
the good man — to use his own expression 
— had seen many of his colleagues walk 
over his body, and win, after only a few 
months’ work, a promotion that his long 
years of service had not gained for him. 

In these cases he had not failed to ac- 
cuse his superiors of injustice, and his 
fortunate rivals of gross flattery. 

In his opinion, seniority was the only 
claim to advancement — the only, the best, 
the most respectable claim. 

When he said; “It is infamous to pass 
over an old member of the service,” he 
summed up his opinions, his griefs, and 
all his bitterness in that one sentence. 

Ah, well ! to-night Father Absinthe dis- 
covered that there is something beyond 
seniority, and that there might be good 
and sufficient reasons for what he had 
formerly regarded as favoritism. He se- 
cretly confessed that this new-comer , 1 


whom he had treated so carelessly, had 
just followed up a clue as he. veteran 
though he was, would never have suc- 
ceeded in doing. 

But communing with himself was not 
this good man's forte; he soon began to 
weary of it, and on reaching a place 
where they were obliged to proceed more 
slowty on account of the badness of the 
road, he deemed it a favorable opportu- 
nity to resume the conversation. 

“You say nothing, comrade,” he ven- 
tured, “and one might swear that you 
were not content.” 

This surprising result of the old man’s 
reflections would have amazed Lecoq, if 
his mind had not been a hundred leagues 
away. 

“Really, I am not content,” he re- 
sponded. 

“And why, pray? Only ten minutes 
ago you were as gay as a lark.” 

“Then I did not see the misfortune 
that threatens us.” 

“A misfortune !” 

“A very great misfortune. Do you 
not perceive that the weather has unde- 
niably moderated. It is evident that the 
wind is from the south. The fog has 
disappeared, but the sky is cloudy and 
the weather is threatening. It will rain 
in less than an hour.” 

“A few drops are falling now; I just 
felt one.” 

These words produced much the same 
effect on Lecoq that a blow of a whip 
produces on a spirited horse. He 
sprang forward, and, adopting a still 
more hurried pace, he exclaimed : 

“Let us make haste! let us make haste!” 

The old policeman followed him as in 
duty bound ; but his mind was, if possi- 
ble, still more troubled by the replies of 
his young companion. 

A great misfortune! The wind from 
the south ! Rain ! He did not see, and 
he could not see the connection. 

Greatly puzzled, and not a little anx- 
ious, he asked an explanation, although 
he had but little more breath then was 
necessary to enable him to continue the 
forced march that he was making. 

“Upon my word,” said he, “I have 
racked my brains — ” 

His companion took pity on his anxi- 
ety. 

“What!” he exclaimed, as he hastened 
forward, “you do not understand that 
our investigation, my success, and your 
reward, are dependent upon those black 
clouds which the wind is driving towards 
us!” 

“Oh!” 

“Twenty minutes of even a gentle rain, 
and our time and our labor will be lost. 
If it rains, the snow will melt, and fare- 
well to our proofs. Let us go on — let us 
go on more quickly! You know very 
well that in such cases it is necessary to 


20 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


bring something more than words. If 

we declare to the coroner that we have 
seen these footprints, he will ask. where? 
And what can we say? If we swear by 
all the gods that we have seen the foot- 
prints of a man and of two women, the 
judge will sav, ‘Let me see them.’ And 
who would feel sheepish then ! Father 
Absinthe and Lecoq. Besides, Gevrol 
would not fail to declare that we were 
’ saying what was not true, in order to 
enhance our own value, and to humilate 
him.” 

“For example!” 

“Faster, papa, faster; you will have 
all day to-morrow to be indignant. Per- 
haps it will not rain. In that case, these 
perfect,, clear, and recognizable foot- 
prints will be the ruin of the culprits. 
How can we preserve them? By what 
process could we solidify them? I would 
deluge them with my biood if that would 
cause them to congeal.” 

Father Absinthe was thinking that his 
share of the labor thus far had been the 
least important. 

He had held the lantern. 

But here was a chance for him to ac- 
quire a real and substantial right to the 
prospective reward. 

“I know,” he declared, “ a method by 
which one could preserve these marks in 
the snow.” 

At these words the younger man 
stopped short. 

“Do you know — you?” he interrupted. 

“Yes, I know*,” replied the old officer, 
with the evident satisfaction of a man 
who has gained his revenge. “They in- 
vented a way at the time of that affair 
at the White House. It occurred last win- 
ter, in the month of December.” 

“I recollect.” 

“Ah! well, there was upon the snow 
in the courtyard an impress that attracted 
the attention of a detective. He said that 
the whole evidence depended upon that 
alone, and that it was worth more than 
ten years of hard work in following up 
the case. Naturally he desired to pre- 
serve it. They sent for a great chemist — ” 

“Go on, go on.” 

“I have never seen the method put 
into practice, but an expert told me all 
about it, and showed me the mold they 
obtained. He even told me that he ex- 
plained it to me fully, on account of my 
profession, and for my instruction.” 

Lecoq was trembling with impatience. 

“And how did they obtain the mold?” 
he asked brusquely. 

“Wait; I was just going to explain. 
They take cards of the best gelatine, and 
they allow it to soak in cold water. When 
it becomes thoroughly softened, they! 
heat it until it forms a liquid not too thin , ' 
nor too thick. They allow this to coolj 
until it is just cool enough, and then pour' 


a nice little covering of it upon the foot- 
print — ” 

Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural 
to a person after he has listened to a bad 
joke, or when one finds that one has lost 
time in listening to a fool. 

“Enough!” he interrupted, angrily. 
“That is Hugonlin's method; it can be 
found in all the manuals. It is excellent, 
no doubt, but how can it serve us ? Have 
}mu any gelatine about you?” 

“No.” 

“Nor have I. You might as well have 
counselled me to pour melted lead upon 
the foot-prints to fix them.” 

They continued their way, and five 
minutes later, without having exchanged 
another word, they re-entered the Widow 
Chupin's hovel. 

The first impulse of the older man 
would have been to rest, to breathe. 
Lecoq did not give him time to do so. 

“Make haste; get me an earthen dish, 
a plate, a vase; bring me some water; 
gather together all the boards and old 
boxes you can find lying about.” 

While his companion was obeying him, 
Lecoq armed himself with a fragment of 
one of the broken bottles, and began 
scraping away furiously at the plastered 
wall that separated the two rooms. 

His intelligence, disconcerted at first 
by the imminence of the unexpected 
catastrophe, had regained its equilibrium. 
He had reflected; he had thought of a 
way by which failure might possibly be 
averted — and he hoped. 

When he had accumulated at his feet 
seven or eight handfuls of the fine plas- 
ter-dust, he mixed half of it with a little 
water, forming a thin paste, and he left 
the rest untouched on the side of the 
plate. 

“Now, papa,” said he, “come and hold 
the light for me.” 

When once in the garden, the young 
man sought for the deepest and most 
distinct of the foot-prints, knelt beside it, 
and began his experiment, trembling with 
anxiety, 

He then sprinkled upon the impression 
a fine coating of the dry plaster, then 
upon this coating, with infinite care, he 
poured his liquid solution drop by drop. 

What happiness! the experiment was 
successful ! It united in a homogeneous 
mass, forming a perfect model of the 
impress. And after an hour's labor, he 
possessed half a dozen of these casts, 
which might, perhaps, be a little wanting 
in clearness of outline, but which were 
quite perfect enough to be used as evi- 
dence. 

Lecoq had Teason for his alarm ; it was 
already beginning to rain. 

He had. however, plenty of time to 
1 cover with the boxes and pieces of board 
j which Father Absinthe had collected a 
number of these foot-prints, which he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


21 


had, so to speak, put beyond the reach of 
a thaw. 

Now he could breathe. The coroner 
might come. 


CHAPTER VII. 

It was some distance from the Poivriere 
to the Rue du Chevaleret, even by way 
of the plain that made any detours un- 
necessary. 

It had taken at least four hours for 
Lecoq and his colleague to collect their 
elements of information. 

And, meantime, the Widow Chupin’s 
cabin had remained open, accessible to 
any chance visitor. 

Still, when the young policeman had on 
his return remembered this neglect of the 
lirst precautions, he did not feel alarmed. 

Considering all the circumstances, it 
was very difficult to believe that any 
serious harm could have resulted from 
this carelessness. 

For who would have been likely, after 
the hour of midnight, to visit this drink- 
ing saloon? Its bad name erected a sort 
of bulwark around it. The most daring 
of vagrants did not drink there without 
some disquietude, fearing, if the liquor 
caused them to lose consciousness, that 
they might be robbed or perhaps mur- 
dered. 

Hence it could have been only a very 
reckless person who, feeling a few sous 
left in his pocket on returning late -at 
night from the ball at the Rainbow, would 
have been attracted to this notoriously 
dangerous saloon by the light that 
streamed through the open door. 

But a single glance at the interior 
would have been enough to put the brav- 
est to flight. 

In less than a second the young police- 
man had weighed all these possibilities, 
but he had not breathed a word to Father 
Absinthe. 

When, little by little, the excitement 
caused by his hopes and his success in his 
experiment had died away, and he had 
returned to his habitual calmness, he 
made a careful inspection of the abode, 
and was by no means satisfied with his 
conduct. 

He had experimented upon Father 
Absinthe with his new system of inves- 
tigation, as an apprentice in the tribune 
tries his powers before his least gifted 
friends, not before the best. 

He had overwhelmed the veteran by 
his superiority ; he had crushed him. 

Great merit and wonderful victory! 
Father Absinthe was a fool ; he, Lecoq, 
thought himself very fine — was there any 
reason why he should boast? 

If he could only give some startling 
proofs of his energy or of his penetra- 


tion! But what had he accomplished? 
Was the mystery solved? Was his suc- 
cess more than problematical? When 
one thread is drawn out, the skein is not 
untangled. 

This night would undoubtedly decide 
his future as a detective, so he swore 
that if he could not conquer his vanity, 
he would, at least, oblige himself to con- 
ceal it. 

Hence it was in a very modest tone 
that he addressed his companion. 

“We have done all that we can out- 
side,” said he; “now would it not be 
wise to busy ourselves with the interior?” 

Everything looked exactly as it did 
when the two men left the room. A 
candle, whose wick was smoking and 
charred, threw its red light upon the 
same scene of disorder, and upon the 
rigid features of the three victims. 

Without losing a moment, Lecoq began 
to pick up and to study all the objects 
scattered upon the floor. Some of these 
still remained intact. It seemed that the 
Widow Chupin had recoiled from the ex- 
pense of a brick floor, judging the ground 
upon which the cabin was built quite 
good enough for the feet of her custom- 
ers. The ground, which must have been 
solid and beaten down originally, had by 
use, by the damp weather and the thaw, 
become scarcely less muddy than the 
plain itself. 

The first fruits of his search were a 
large salad-bowl, and a big iron spoon, 
which was too much twisted and bent not 
to have been used as a weapon during the 
conflict. 

It was evident that when the quarrel 
began the victims were regaling them- 
selves with that mixture of water, wine 
and sugar, known along the barriere 
under the name of wine a la Francaise. 

After the salad-bowl, the two men 
picked up five of those horrible glasses 
used in drinking saloons, heavy and very 
thick at the bottom, which look as if they 
ought to contain half a bottle, but which, 
in reality, contain almost nothing. Three 
were broken, two were whole. 

There had been wine in these five 
glasses — the same wine a la Francaise. 
They could see it ; but, for greater surety, 
Lecoq applied his tongue to the bluish 
mixture remaining in the bottom of each 
glass. 

“The devil!” he murmured, with an 
astonished air. 

Then he examined successively the 
bottoms of all the over-turned tables. 
Upon one of these, the one nearest the 
fire-place and the window, they could 
distinguish the still wet m&rks of the 
five glasses, of the salad-bowl, and even 
of the spoons. 

This circumstance the young officer 
very properly regarded as a matter of the 
greatest importance, for it proved clearly 


22 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


that five persons had emptied the salad- 
howl in company. But which persons'? 

‘•Oh ! oh !” exclaimed Lecoq in two en- 
tirely different tones. “Then the two 
women could not have* been with the 
murderer !” 

A very simple mode of discovery had 
presented itself. It was to see what the 
other glasses had contained. They dis- 
covered one, similar in form to the others, 
but much smaller. It had contained 
brandy. 

Then these women had not been with 
the murderer, therefore he could not have 
fought because the other men had in- 
sulted them. 

This discovery had suddenly proved 
the incorrectness of his suppositions. It 
was an unexpected check, and he was 
mourning over it in silence, when Father 
Absinthe, who had not ceased ferreting 
about, uttered a cry of surprise. 

The young man turned; he saw that 
his companion had become very pale. 

“What is it?” he demanded. 

“Some one has been here in our ab- 
sence.” 

“Impossible !” 

It was not impossible — it was true. 

When Gevrol had torn the apron off of 
Widow Chupin, he had thrown it upon 
the steps of the stairs ; neither of the po- 
licemen had touched it afterwards. Ah, 
well ! the pockets of this apron had been 
turned inside out ; this was a proof, this 
was evidence. 

Lecoq was overcome with consterna- 
tion, and the contraction of his features 
revealed the struggle in his mind. 

“Who could have been here?” he mur- 
mured. “Robbers? That is improbable.” 

Then after a long silence, which his 
companion took good care not to inter- 
rupt ; 

“The person who came here, who dared 
to penetrate this abode guarded by the 
corses of these murdered men — this per- 
son could have been none other than the 
accomplice. But it is not enough to sus- 
pect this, it is necessary to know it. I 
must know. I will know!” 

They searched for a long time, and it 
was not until after an hour ot earnest 
work that, in front of the door forced 
open by the police, they discovered in the 
mud, just inside the marks made by Gev- 
rol’s stamping, a foot-print that bore a 
close resemblance to those left by the 
man who had entered the garden. 

They compared the impressions and re- 
cognized the same designs formed by the 
nails upon the sole of the boot. 

“It must have been he!” exclaimed Le- 
coq. “He watched us, he saw usgo away, 
and he entered here. But why ? What 
pressing, irresistible necessity made him 
decide to brave such imminent danger.” 

He seized his companion's hand, and 
nearly crushing it in his excitement ; 


“Why?” continued he, violently. “Ah ! 
I understand only too w r ell. There had 
been left, or forgotten or lost here, some 
article that would have served to throw 
light on this horrible affair. And to ob- 
tain it, to find it, he decided to run this 
terrible risk. And to think that it was 
my fault, my fault alone, that this con- 
vincing proof escaped us ! And I thought 
myself so shrewd ! What a lesson ! The 
door should have been locked ; any fool 
would have thought of it — ” 

He checked himself, and remained with 
open mouth and distended eyes, pointing 
with his finger to one of the corners of 
the room. 

“What is the matter?” demanded his 
frightened companion. 

Lecoq made no reply, but slowly and 
with the stiff movements of a somnaYnbu- 
list, he approached the spot to which he 
had pointed, stooped, picked up some- 
thing, and said : 

“My folly does not deserve this good 
fortune.” 

The object he had picked up was an 
ear-ring of the sort that jewellers call 
buttons. It was composed of a single 
very large diamond. The setting was of 
marvelous workmanship. 

“This diamond,” he declared, after a 
moment’s examination, “must be worth 
at least five or six thousand francs.” 

“Are you in earnest?” 

1 I think I would be willing to take my 
oath on it.” 

He had not said “I think,” a few hours 
before ; he had said very boldly, “I swear.” 
But the first mistake was a lesson that 
would not be forgotten so long as he 
lived. 

“Perhaps it was the same diamond ear- 
ring that the accomplice came to seek.” 

“This supposition is scarcely admissible. 
In that case, he would not have sought 
for it in Mother Chupin's apron. No. he 
must have been seeking something else — 
a letter, for example.” 

The older man was not listening; he 
had taken the ear-ring, and was examin- 
ing it in his turn. 

“And to think,” he murmured, aston- 
ished by the brilliancy of the stone, “to 
think that a woman who had ten thou- 
sand francs’ worth of jewels in her ears 
should have come to the Poivriere. Who 
would have believed it?” 

Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. 
“Yes, it is very strange, very improbable, 
very absurd. And yet 'we shall see many 
things as strange if we ever arrive — 
which I very much doubt — at a solution 
of this mysterious affair.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


23 


~ tt 4 tv™™ TTTTr I There remained now only to make the 

CHAPTER VIII. 1 report. 

— . I The younger man seated himself at the 

1>ay was breaking, raw, cheerless, and table, and began by drawing a plan of 
gloomy, when Lecoq and his colleague! the scene of the murder, which would, of 
concluded them investigation. |Course, be of great service ini 'making 

Ihere was not an inch of space that others understand his recital, 
had not been explored, carefully ex-1 
amined, and studied, one might almost 
say, with a magnifying glass. 1 



A. — The point where the squad of police, under command of Inspector Gevrol, heard the cries of 
the victims. 

(The distance from tills point to the hut known as the Poivriere is only one hundred and twenty- 
three yards; hence, it may reasonably lie supposed that these cries weie'the first that were uttered, 
and consequently that the combat had just commenced.) 

B. — The window covered with shutters, through the openings of which one of the police was 
able to see the scene within. 

C. — The door forced open by Inspector Gevrol. 

D. — Staircase upon which the Widow Chupinavas seated, crying 

(It was upon the third step of this staircase that the Widow Chapin’s apron was afterwards 
found, the pockets turned inside out.) 

F — Fire-place. 

HHII.— Tables. 

(The remnants of the salad-bowl and of the five glasses were found scat'ered on the floor be- 
tween the points F. and B.) 

T.— Door communicating with the back room of the hovel, before which the armed murderer 
was standing 

K — Back door of the hut, opening into The garden, by which the agent of police, who thought 
of cutting ofl the murderer’s reheat, entered. 

Lev — Gate of the garden, opening upon the unoccupied ground. . 

MM.— Footprints on the snow, discovered by the policeman remaining at the Poivriere, after the 
departure of Inspecco’ Gevrol. * 


Thus it will be seen that in this explan- 
atory chart Lecoq had not once written 
his name. 

In noting the things that he had im- 
agined or discovered, he referred to him- 
self simply as one of the police. 

This was not modesty so much as cal- 
culation By hiding one’s self on well- 
chosen occasions, one gains greater noto- 
riety when one emerges from the shadow. 

It was also through cunning that he 
gave Gevrol such a prominent position. 

These tactics, rather subtle, perhaps, 
but after all perfectly fair, could not fail 
to call attention to the man who had 


ishown himself so efficient, 'when t.hv 
1 efforts of his chief had been confined 
jonly to breaking open the door. 

! The document he drew up was not a 
verbal process, an act reserved for the 
officers of the police judiciary — it was a 
simple report, that would be admitted 
under the title of an inquiry and yet he 
composed it with the same care a young 
general would have displayed in the 
bulletin of his first victory. 

While he was drawing and writing, 
Father Absinthe leaned over his shoulder 
to watch him, 

The plan amazed that worthy man. 


24 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


He had seen a great deal ; but he had 
always supposed that it was necessary to 
be an engineer, an architect, or, at least, 
a carpenter, to execute such a work. Not 
at all. With a tape-line with which to 
take some measurements, and a bit of 
board in place of a rule, this inexperi- 
enced colleague had accomplished the 
miracle. 

His respect for Lecoq was greatly 
augmented. 

It is true that the worthy veteran had 
not noticed the explosion of the young 
policeman's vanity, nor his return to his j 


the name of one of the best armorers 
in London : Stephen, 14 Skinner street. 

Lecoq felt convinced that by examin- 
ing the bodies of the victims he would 
find other, and perhaps very valuable in- 
formation; but this he dared not do. He 
was still too inexperienced to hazard 
such a step. Besides, he understood if 
he ran such a risk, Gevrol, furious at his 
own mistake, would not fail to declare 
that, by changing the attitude of the 
bodies, he had rendered a satisfactory ex- 
amination by the physicians impossible. 
He consoled himself, however, and he 


former modest demeanor. He had not j was re-reading his report, modifying this 
observed his alarm, nor his perplexity , j or that expression, when Father Ab- 


the 


sinthe, who was standing upon 
threshold of the outer door, called him. 
“Is there anything new?” responded 


nor his lack of penetration. 

After a few moments, Father Absinthe 
ceased watching his companion. He felt 
weary after the labors of the night, his Lecoq. 
head was burning, and he-shivered. I “Here are Gevrol and two of our com- 
His knees trembled. M es bringing the commissioner and two 

Perhaps, though he was by no means °thei gentlemen with them, 
sensitive, he felt the influence of the hor- 

and which 


rors that surrounded him. 
seemed more sinister than ever in the 
bleak light of morning. 

He began to ferret in the cupboards, 
and at last succeeded in discovering — O 
great good fortune ! — a bottle of brandy, 
three quarters full. He hesitated for an 
instant, then he poured out a glass full, 
and drained it at a single draught. 

“Will you have some?” he inquired of 


of 


It was, indeed, the commissioner 
police who was coming, quite interested 
in this triple murder that had stained his 
arondissement, but not very much dis- 
turbed by it. 

Why should he be troubled about it? 

Gevrol, whose opinions in such matters 
must be regarded as an authority, had 
taken care to reassure him when he went 
to arouse him from his slumbers. 


“It was only a fight between some old 
"vvm you nave sume r ■ ne xuquireu ui offenders; former jail birds, habitues ol 
his companion. “It is not a very famous th Poivr ’ ” he had said to him. 

hvnnrl f r\ hn cnirn • hut if 1 C? incr 02 OYiAfi 7 . . . . ... 


brand, to be sure; but it is just as good, 
it makes one’s blood circulate and en- 
livens one.” 

Lecoq refused ; he did not need to be 
enlivened. All his faculties were hard 
at work. He intended that, after a single 
reading of the report, the judge should 
say : “Let the officer who has drawn up 
this document be sent for.” His future 
depended upon this order. 

He endeavored to be brief, clear and 
concise, to plainly indicate how his sus- 
picions on the subject of the murder had 
been aroused, how they had increased, 
and how they had been confirmed. He 
explained by what series of deductions 
he had succeeded in establishing a truth 
which, if it was not the truth, was at 
least plausible enough to serve as the 
basis of further investigation. 

Then he enumerated the articles of 
conviction ranged on the table before 
him. 

There were the flakes of brown wool 
collected upon the plank, the valuable 
ear-ring, the models of the different foot- 


“If all these wretches would kill one 
another, we might have some peace.’ 

He added that the murderer had been 
arrested and placed in confinement, and 
consequently the case was not urgent. 

The commissioner therefore saw noth- 
ing improper in waiting until mciuing 
before beginning the inquest. 

He had seen the murderer, reported the 
case, and now he was coming — not in 
too much haste — accompanied by two 
physicians who had been appointed by 
the government attorney to make medico- 
leg ales reports in such cases 
They were also accompanied by a ser- 
geant-major of the 53d regiment of light 
infantry, summoned by the commissioner 
to identify, if possible, the murdered man, 
who wore a uniform, and who, if one 
might believe the number engraved upon 
the buttons of his overcoat, belonged to 
the 53d regiment, now stationed at the 
fort. 

Inspector Gevrol was even less dis- 
turbed than the commissioner. 

He whistled as he walked along, flour- 
prints in the garden, and Widow Chupin's|ishing his cane, which never left his hand, 
apron with its pockets turned inside out. i and making merry at the discomfiture 
There was also the murderer’s pistol,! of the presumptuous fool who had desired 
of whose five barrels three were still un- to remain to glean where he, the expe- 
discliarged. jrienced and skiliful officer, had perceived 

This weapon, although unornamented, nothing, 
was remarkably well finished, and bore| As soon as he was within hearing dis- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


25 


tance, the inspector called to Father 
Absinthe, who, after warning Lecoq, 
remained on the threshold, leaning against 
the door-post, puffing his pipe, as immov- 
able as a sphinx. 

“Ah, well, old man!” cried Gevrol, 
“have you any great melodrama, very 
dark and very mysterious, to relate to us. 
> “I myself have nothing to relate, re- 
plied the worthy addressed, without even 
drawing his pipe from his lips; “I am 
too stupid ; that is perfectly understood. 
But Monsieur Lecoq will tell you some- 
thing that will astonish you.” 

This title, “monsieur,” which the old 
policeman bestowed upon his colleague, 
displeased Gevrol so much that he pre- 
tended not to understand. 

“Who?” said he, “of whom are you 
speaking?” 

“Of my colleague, of course, who is 
now busy finishing his report — of Mon- 
sieur Lecoq.” 

Although unintentionally, the good man 
had certainly become the young police- 
man’s god-father. From that day for- 
ward, to his enemies as well as to his 
friends, he was, and he remained, Mon- 
sieur Lecoq. 

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector whose 
hearing was evidently impaired. “Ah, 
he has discovered — ” 

“The pot of roses which others did not 
scent, General.” 

By this remark Father Absinthe made 
an enemy of his superior officer. But 
Lecoq had won him entirely. He had 
taken sides with Lecoq, and to Lecoq. 
against eveiy one else, if necessary, he 
had determined to attach himself, and to 
share good fortune or bad fortune with 
him. 

“We will see,” murmured the inspec- 
tor, mentally resolving to have an eye 
on this youth whom success might trans- 
form into a rival. 

He said no more. The little party 
which he preceded had arrived, and he 
stood aside to make way for the commis- 
sioner of police. 

This commissioner was not a debutant. 
He had served for many years, and yet 
he could not repress a movement of hor- 
ror on entering the Poivriere. 

The sergeant-major of the 53d who fol- 
lowed him, an old soldier decorated and 
medaled, was still more overcome with 
horror. He became as pale as the corses 
that were lying there, and was obliged 
to lean against the wall for support. 

Only the two physicians retained their 
stoical indifference. 

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand ; 
he had bowed, and assuming a respectful 
attitude, was waiting to be interrogated. 

“You must have passed a frightful 
night,” said the commissioner, kmdly; 
“and quite unnecessarily, since any inves- n 
tigation was superfluous.” * 


“I think, however,” replied the young 
man, armed with diplomacy, “that my 
time has not been entirely lost. I have 
• conformed to the instruction of my supe- 
rior officer ; I have searched the premises 
thoroughly, and I have ascertained many 
things. I have, for example, acquired 
the certainty that the murderer had a 
friend, possibly an accomplice, of whom 
I can give quite a close description. He 
must have been of middle age, and wore, 
if I am not mistaken, a soft cap and 
a brown woolen overcoat; as for his 
boots — ” 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and 
I—” 

He stopped short, like a man whose 
impulse had exceeded his discretion, and 
who would have gladly taken back his 
words. 

“And you?” questioned the commis- 
sioner. “What do you mean?” 

Furious, but having gone to far to 
draw back, the inspector was obliged to 
act as his own executioner. 

“I was about to say that this morn- 
ing, about an hour ago, while I was 
waiting for you, Monsieur le Commis- 
saire, before the station-house of the 
Barriere d’ltalie, where the murderer is 
confined, I saw at some little distance an 
individual whose appearance was not un- 
like that of the man described by Lecoq. 
This man appeared to be greatly intoxi- 
cated; he reeled and staggered against 
the walls. He tried to cross the street, 
but fell down in the middle of it, in such 
a position that he would inevitably have 
been crushed by the first passing vehi- 
cle.” 

Lecoq turned away his head; he did 
not wish them to read in his eyes how 
perfectly he understood the whole game. , 

“Seeing this,” pursued Gevrol, “I 
called two men and asked them to aid me 
in raising the poor wretch. We went to 
him ; he had apparently fallen asleep : we 
shook him — we made him sit up ; we told 
him that he could not remain there, but 
immediately he flew into a furious rage. 
He swore at us, he threatened us, he tried 
to fight us. And, upon my word ! we 
took him to the station-house, and left 
him there to recover from his debauch. 

“Did you shut him up in the same 
room with the murderer?” inquired 
Lecoq. 

4 4 N aturally . You know very well there 
are but two cages in the station-house at 
the barriere — one for the men, the other 
for the women ; consequently ” 

The commissioner seemed thoughtful. 
“Ah! this is very unfortunate,” he mur- 
mured ; “and there is no remedy.” 

“Pardon me, there is one,” objected 
Gevrol, “I can send one of my men to 
the station-house with an order to detain 
the drunken man ” 

Lecoq interrupted him with a gesture. 


20 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“Trouble lost,” he said coldly. “If 
this individual is an accomplice, he has 
become sober, rest assured of that, and 
is far away by this time.” 

“Then what is one to do?” demanded 
the inspector, with an ironical air. “May 
one be permitted to inquire the opinion 
of Monsieur Lecoq?” 

“I think chance offered us a splendid 
opportunity, and we did not know how 
to seize it ; and that the best thing we 
can do now is to make our period of 
mourning for it as short as possible, and 
to stand ready to embrace the next op- 
portunity that offers itself.” 

Gevrol was, however, determined to 
send one of his men to the station-house ; 
and when the messenger had departed, 
Lecoq commenced the reading of his re- 
port. 

He read it rapidly, refraining as much 
as possible from placing the decisive 
proofs in strong relief, reserving these 
for his own benefit ; but so strong was 
the logic of his deductions, that he was 
frequently interrupted by approving re- 
marks from the commissioner, and by 
the “very well!” of the physicians. 

Gevrol, who alone represented the op- 
position, elevated his shoulders until they 
entirely concealed his neck, and became 
literally green with jealousy. 

The report concluded : 

“I think that you alone, young man, 
have judged correctly in this affair,” 
said the commissioner. “I may be mis- 
taken ; but your explanations have made 
me look at the attitude assumed by the 
murderer while I was questioning him 
(which was only fora moment), in an 
entirely different light. He refused, ob- 
stinately refused, to make any reply to 
my questions. He would not even con- 
sent to tell his name.” 

Ho was silent for a moment, reviewing 
the past circumstances in his mind, and 
it was in a serious tone that he added . 

“We are, I feel convinced, in the pre- 
sence of one of those mysterious crimes, 
the causes of which are beyond the reach 
of human sagacity— one of those myste- 
rious cases which human justice never 
can reach.” 

Lecoq hid a slight smile. 

“Oh!” thought he, “we will see about 
that.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

No consultation held at the bedside of 
a man dying of some unknown disease 
ever took place in the presence of two 
physicians so utterly unlike as those who, 
upon the requisition of the government 
attorney, accompanied the commissioner 
of police. 

One, large, old, and totally bald, wore 


a broad-brimmed hat, and an overcoat of 
antique cut, over his ill-filting black coat. 
He was one of those modest savants 
whom one encounters sometimes in the 
by-places of Paris — one of those healers 
devoted to their art, who too often die in 
obscurity, after rendering immense ser- 
vice to mankind. 

He had the gracious calmness of a man 
who, having seen much of human mis- 
ery, comprehended everything; and no 
troubled conscience could sustain his 
searching glance, which was as keen as 
his lancet. 

The other, young, fresh, light-haired, 
and jovial, was even foppishly attired ; 
and his white hands were encased in 
handsome fur gloves. His glance was 
ever caressing or smiling. He was a man 
who would have been likely to recom- 
mend all those infallible panaceas in- 
vented each month in the chemist’s labor- 
atories and advertised on the fourth 
page of the newspapers. He had prob- 
ably written more than one article upon 
“Medicine for the use of all mankind.” 

“I will request you, gentlemen, to be- 
gin your duties by examining that one of 
the victims who wears the military cos- 
tume. Here is a sergeant-major sum- 
moned to answer a question of identity, 
whom I must send back to his quarters 
as soon as possible ” 

The two physicians responded with a 
gesture of assent, and aided by Father 
Absinthe and another agent of police, 
they lifted the body and laid it upon two 
tables, which had previously been placed 
end to end. 

They were not obliged to make any 
note of the attitude in which they founid 
the body, since the unfortunate man, 
who was still alive when the police en- 
tered the cabin, had been moved before 
he expired. 

“Approach, sergeant,” ordered the 
commissioner, “and look carefully at 
this man. 

It was with very evident repugnance 
that the old soldier obeyed. 

“What is the uniform that he wears?” 

“It is the uniform of the 53d regulars, 
2d battalion, company of light infantry.” 

“Do you recognize him?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Are you sure that he does not belong 
to your regiment?” 

“I cannot say certainly ; there are some 
conscripts at the depot whom I have 
never seen. But I am ready to swear 
that he has never formed a part of the 
2d battalion — which, by the way, is mine 
— in the division of light infantry, of 
which I am sergeant-major.” 

Lecoq, who had until now remained in 
the background, stepped forward. 

“It might be well,” he suggested, “to 
note the numbers marked ux>on the other 
articles of clothing.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


27 


“That is a very good idea,” said the 
commissioner, ap pro vingly . 

“Here is his hat,” added the young 
policeman. “It bears the number 3,129.” 

They followed Lecoq’s advice, and 
soon discovered that each article of 
clothing upon the unfortunate man bore 
a different number. 

“Mon Dieu /” murmured the sergeant ; 

“there is every indication But it is 

very singular.” 

Invited to scrupulously verify his as- 
sertion, the brave trooper evidently made 
an effort to collect all his intellectual fac- 
ulties. 

“I would stake my epaulettes that this 
man never was a soldier,” he said at last. 
“This individual must have disguised 
himself to take part in the Shrove Sun- 
day carnival.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“Dame ! I know this better than I can 
explain it. I know it by his hair, by his 
nails, by his whole appearance, by a cer- 
tain je ne sais quoi ; in short I know it by 
everything and by nothing. And see, 
the poor devil did not even know how to 
put on his shoes ; he has laced his gaiters 
wrong side outwards.” 

Evidently further doubt was impossi- 
ble after this evidence, which continued 
the truth of Lecoq’s first remark to In- 
spector Gevrol. 

“Still, if this person was a civilian, 
how could he have procured this cloth- 
ing?” insisted the commissioner. “Could 
he have borrowed it from the men in 
your company?” 

“Yes, that is barely possible; but it is 
difficult to believe it.” 

“Is there no way by which you could 
ascertain?” 

“Oh ! very easily. I have only to run 
over to the fort and order an inspection 
of clothing.” 

“Do that,” approved the commissioner ; 
“it would be an excellent way of getting 
at the truth.” 

But Lecoq had just thought of a 
method just as convincing, and much 
more prompt, 

“One word, sergeant,” said he, “is not 
the cast off and condemned clothing of 
your men sold at public auction?” 

“Yes ; at least once a year, after the in- 
spection.” 

“And are not the articles thus sold 
marked in some way?” 

“Assuredly.” 

“Then see of there is not some mark of 
this kind upon the uniform of this poor 
wretch.” 

The officer turned up the collar of his 
coat and examined the waistband of the 
pantaloons, and said : 

“You are right— these are condemned 
garments.” 

The eyes of the young policeman 


sparkled, but they emitted only a single 
gleam of triumph. 

“Wc must then believe that this poor 
devil had purchased- this costume,” he 
observed. “Where? Necessarily at the 
Temple, in the store of one of those mer- 
chants who deal in military clothing. 
There are only five or six of these es- 
tablishments. I will go from one to an- 
other of them, and the person who sold 
this clothing will certainly recognize it 
by some trade mark.” 

“And that will assist us very much,” 
growled Gevrol. 

The sergeant-major, to his great relief, 
received permission to retire, but not 
without having been warned that very 
probably the commissioner would require 
his deposition. 

The moment had come to search the 
body of the pretended soldier, and the 
commissioner, who performed this duty 
himself, hoped that some information as 
to the identity of this man would be re- 
vealed. 

He proceeded with his task, dictating 
at the same time to one of the men his 
verbal-process; that is to say, a minute 
description of all the articles he found 
upon the dead man’s person. 

These were : in the right hand pocket 
of the pantaloons, some smoking tobac- 
co, a pipe, and a few matches ; in the 
left pocket, a very much soiled leather 
pocket-book, containing seven francs and 
sixty centimes, and a linen pocket-hand- 
kerchief of good quality, but unmarked. 

And nothing more ! 

The commissioner was regretting this, 
when, on carefully examining the pock- 
et-book, he found a compartment which 
had at first escaped his notice on account 
of being hid under a leather flap. 

In this compartment was a carefully 
folded paper. He unfolded it and read 
the contents aloud : 

“My Dear Gustave — Tomorrow, Sun- 
day evening, do not fail to come to the 
ball’ at the Rainbow, according to our 
agreement. If you have no money pass 
my house, and I will leave some with the 
concierge, who will give it to you. 

Be there at eight o’clock. If I am not 
already there, it will not be long before 
I make my appearance. All is well. 

“Lacheneur.” 

Alas! what did this letter reveal? 
Only that the dead man’s name was Gus- 
tave ; that he had some connection with 
a man named Lacheneur, who had ad- 
vanced him money for a certain object ; 
and that they had met at the Rainbow 
some hours before the murder. 

It was little— very little. It was some- 
thing, however. It was a clue; and in 
this absolute darkness even the faintest 
gleam of light was eagerly welcomed. 

“Lacheneur I” growled Gevrol; “the 


23 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


poor devil uttered that name in his last 
agony.” 

“Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe; 
“and he declared that he wished to re- 
venge himself upon him. He accused 
him of having drawn him into a trap. 
Unfortunately, death cut his story short.” 

Lecoq was silent. The commissioner 
of police had handed him the letter, and 
he was studying it with the closest at- 
tention. 

The paper was of the ordinary kind; 
the ink was blue. In one of the corners 
was a half-effaced mark, upon which one 
could distinguish only the name : Beau- 
marchais. 

This was enough for Lecoq. 

“This letter,” he thought, “was cer- 
tainly written in a cafe on the Boulevard 
Beaumarchais. In which one? I will 
find out, for this Lacheneur must be 
found.” 

While the men of the prefecture were 
gathered around the commissioner, hold- 
ing council and deliberating, the physi- 
cians began their delicate and disagree- 
able task. 

With the assistance of the obliging 
Father Absinthe, they removed the cloth- 
ing of the pretended soldier, and, bend- 
ing over their “subject” like surgeons 
in the schools of anatomy, with sleeves 
rolled up, they examined, inspected, and 
appraised him physically. 

Very willingly would the artist-doctor 
have dispensed with these formalities, 
which he considered very ridiculous, and 
entirely unnecessary ; but the old physi- 
cian had too high a regard for his pro- 
fession, and for the duty he had been 
called upon to fulfil, to neglect the slight- 
est detail. 

Minutely, and with the most scrupulous 
exactitude, he noted the height of the 
dead man, his supposed age, the nature 
of his temperament, the color and the 
length of his hair, and the degree of 
development of his muscular system. 

Then they passed to an examination of 
the wound. 

Lecoq had judged correctly. The 
doctors declared it a fracture of the base 
of the skull. It could, they stated in 
their report, have been caused only by 
the action of some instrument with a very 
broad surface, or by a violent knock of 
the head against some hard substance of 
considerable magnitude. 

But no weapon, other than the revol- 
ver, had been found; and that was 
not heavy enough to produce such a 
wound. 

There must, then, necessarily, have 
been a hand-to-hand struggle between 
the pretended soldier and the murderer ; 
and the latter, seizing his adversary by 
the throat, had dashed him violently 
against the wall. 

The presence of very tiny and very 


numerous spots of extravasated blood 
about the neck, made*these conclusions 
extremely plausible. 

They did not find any other wound, not 
a bruise, not a scratch — nothing ! 

Hence, it was evident that this terrible 
struggle must have been exceedingly 
short. 

Between the moment when the squad 
of police had heard the shrieks, and the 
moment when Lecoq had peered through 
the shutter and seen the victim fall, this 
slaughter must have been consummated. 

The examination of the other murdered 
men required different but even greater 
precautions. 

•Their position had been respected ; 
they were still lying across the hearth as 
they had fallen, and their attitude was 
a matter of great importance, since it 
would have an important bearing on the 
case. 

And this attitude was such that one 
could not fail to be impressed with the idea 
that their death had been instantaneous. 

Both of them were stretched out upon 
their backs, their limbs extended and 
their hands wide open. 

No contraction, no torsion of the mus- 
cles, no trace of combat, they had been 
taken unawares. 

The faces of both men expressed the 
most intense fear. One might suppose, 
if he believed the theory of Devergie, 
that the last sentiment they had experi- 
enced in life had been neither anger nor 
hatred, but terror. 

“Thus,” said the old doctor, “we may 
reasonably suppose that they must have 
been stupefied by some entirely unex- 
pected, strange, and frightful spectacle. 
This terrified expression, written upon 
their faces, I have noticed more than once 
upon the features of a woman who sud- 
denly died from the shock she experi- 
enced in seeing one of her neighbors 
enter her house to play a trick upon her, 
disguised as a phantom.” 

Lecoq drank in these explanations 
given by the physicians, and tried to make 
them conform to the vague hypotheses 
that were revolving in liis own brain. 

But who could these individuals be? 
Would they in death guard the secret of 
their identity, as the other victim had 
done? 

The first subject examined by the phy- 
sicians was over fifty years of age. His 
hair was very thin and quite gray ; his 
face was closely shaven, except for a 
thick tuft of hair that decorated his 
rather prominent chin. 

He was very poorly clad in pantaloons 
that hung in rags over boots which were 
trodden down at the heel, and in a much 
soiled woolen blouse. 

The old doctor declared that this man 
must have been instantly killed by a bul- 
let ; the size of the circular wound, the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


29 


absence of blood around its edge, and 
the blackened and burnt flesh demon- 
strated this fact with almost mathemat- 
ical precision. 

The great difference in the wounds 
made by fire-arms, according to the dis- 
tance from which the death-dealing mis- 
sile comes, was seen when the physicians 
began the autopsy of the last of the un- 
fortunates. 

The ball that had caused his death had 
scarcely traversed a yard of space before 
it reached him, and his wound was not 
nearly so hideous in aspect as the other. 

This individual, who was at least fifteen 
years younger than his companion, was 
small and remarkable ugly. 

His entirely beardless face was every- 
where scarred by the small-pox. 

His garb was such as is worn by the 
worst denizens of the barriere. His 
trousers were of gray checked material, 
and his blouse was turned back en revers 
at the throat. His boots had been 
blackened. The little glazed cap that lay 
on the floor beside him was in harmony 
with his pretentious coiffure and his 
gaudy cravat. 

But these were all the facts that the 
physician’s report set forth in technical 
terms ; this was all the information that 
had been obtained by the most careful 
investigation. 

Vainly the pockets of the two men had 
been explored and turned inside out; 
they contained nothing that would give 
the slightest clue to their personality, to 
their name, to their social position, or to 
their profession. 

Not even the slightest indication — not 
a letter, not an address, not a fragment 
of paper ; nothing — not even the common 
articles of personal use, such as a tobacco- 
box, a knife, a pipe which might be rec- 
ognized, and thus establish the identity 
of its owner. 

Some tobacco in a paper bag, some 
pocket-handkerchiefs that were un- 
marked, some rolls of cigarettes — these 
were all that had been discovered 

The elder man had sixty-seven francs 
about him ; the younger, two louis. 

Rarely had the police found themselves 
in the presence of so terrible an affair, 
without some slight clue to guide them 

With the exception of the fact itself, 
proved only too well by the bodies of the 
three victims, they were ignorant of 
everything connected with it, of the cir- 
cumstances and of the motive, and the 
probabilities, instead of dissipating the 
uncertainty, only augmented it. 

Certainly they might hope, by the aid 
of time, strenuous effort, and the power- 
ful means of investigation which they 
have at their disposal, to finally arrive at 
the truth. 

But, meanwhile, all was mystery— so 


much so that they could not even say 
who was to blame. 

The murderer had been arrested; but 
if he persisted in his obstinacy, how were 
they to ascertain his name? lie protested 
his innocence ; how were they to furnish 
anjr proofs of his guilt? 

They knew nothing in regard to the 
victims; and one of them had with his 
dying breath accused himself. 

An inexplicable influence tied the 
tongue of the Widow Chupin. 

Two women, one of whom had lost an 
earring valued at 5,000 francs, had wit- 
nessed the struggle — then disappeared. 
An accomplice, after two acts of un- 
heard of audacity, had made his escape. 

And all these people — the women, the 
murderer, the keeper of the saloon, the 
accomplice, and the victims — were 
equally strange and mysterious, equally 
suspected of not being what they seemed 
to be. 

Perhaps the commissioner thought he 
would spend a very unpleasant quarter 
of an hour at the prefecture when he 
reported the case. Certainly he spoke of 
his impressions on the subject in a very 
despondent tone. 

“It will now be best,” he said at last, 
“to transport these three bodies to the 
morgue. There they will doubtless be 
identified.” 

He reflected a moment, then added : 

“And to think that one of these dead 
men is perhaps Lacheneur himself!” 

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. 
“The"disguised soldier, being the last to 
die, had seen his companions fall. If he 
had supposed Lacheneur dead, he would 
not have spoken of vengeance.” 

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had 
pretended to pay no attention to the pro- 
ceedings, now approached. He was not 
the man to yield even to the strongest 
evidence. 

“If Monsieur le Commissaire will listen 
to me, he shall hear my opinion, which is 
a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s 
fancies,” 

The sound of wheels before the door of 
the cabin interrupted him, and an instant 
after the judge of instruction* entered 
the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

There was not a person in the Poiv- 
riere who did not know, at least by sight, 
the judge who had just entered, and Gev- 


* In French law, the term "Instruction” Is ap- 
plied to the investigation and preparation of a 
case for tidal. 

And the judge of instruction is the official 
charged with collecting proofs and testimony, and 
in preparing the case for presentation to the court. 


30 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


rol, an old habitue of the Palais de Jus- 
tice, murmured his name : 

“M. Maurice d’Escorval.” 

He was the son of that famous Baron 
d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his devo- 
tion to the empire with his blood, and 
upon whom Napoleon, at St. •Helena, pro- 
nounced this magnificent eulogium : 

“Men as honest as he may, I believe, 
exist ; but more honest, no, it is not pos- 
sible.” 

Having entered upon his duties as 
magistrate early in life, and being en- 
dowed with a remarkable talent for his 
vocation, it had been supposed that he 
would rise to the most exalted rank in 
his profession. But he had disappointed 
such prognostications by resolutely re- 
fusing all the more elevated positions 
that men offered to him, in order to con- 
tinue his modest but useful functions in 
the tribunal of the Seine. 

To explain his refusals, he said that 
life in Paris had more charms for him 
than the most enviable advancement. 
But it was hard to understand this dec- 
laration on his part, for in spite of his 
brilliant connections and large fortune, 
he had, since the death of his eldest bro- 
ther, led a most retired existence, con- 
cealing his life, or revealing it only by 
his untiring labors and the good he did to 
those around him. 

He was now about forty-two years of 
age, but appeared much younger, al- 
though furrows were beginning to show 
themselves upon his forehead. 

One would have admired his face, had 
it not been for the puzzling immobility 
that marred its beauty, the sarcastic curl 
of the thin lips, and the gloomy expres- 
sion of his pale-blue eyes. 

To say that he was cold and grave, did 
not express the truth ; it was saying too 
little. He was gravity and coldness per- 
sonified, with a shade of hauteur added. 

Impressed by the horror of the scene 
the instant he placed his foot upon the 
threshold, M. d’Escorval acknowledged 
the presence of the physicians and the 
commissioner only by an abstracted nod 
of the head. The others in the room had 
no existence so far as he was concerned. 

Already his faculties were at work. He 
studied the ground, and carefully noted 
all the surroundings with the attentive 
sagacity of a judge who realizes the im- 
mense weight of even the slightest detail, 
and who understands the eloquence of cir- 
cumstantial evidence. 

“It is a serious affair,” he said, gravely ; 
“very serious.” 

The commissioner’s only response was 
to lift his eyes to heaven. A gesture that 
said very plainly : 

“I am quite in accord with you!” 

The fact is, that for the past two hours 
the worthy commissioner’s responsibility 
had weighed heavily upon him, and he 


| secretly blessed the judge for relieving 
him of it. 

“The government solicitor was unable 
to accompany me,” resumed M. d’Escor- 
val, “he has not the gift of omnipresence, 
and I doubt if it is possible for him to 
join me here. Let us, therefore, begin 
operations at once.” 

The curiosity of those present was be- 
coming unendurable; and the commis- 
sioner only expressed the general feeling 
when he said : 

“You, sir, have undoubtedly questioned 
the murderer, and have learned ” 

“I have learned nothing.” interrupted 
M. d’Escorval, apparently much aston- 
ished at the interuption. 

He seated himself, and while his clerk 
was busy in authenticating the commis- 
sioner’s verbal-process , he began the peru- 
sal of the report written by Lecoq. 

Pale, agitated and nervous, that young 
policeman, hidden in a remote corner, 
tried to read upon the impassive face of 
the magistrate the impression produced 
by the document. 

It was his future that was at stake — 
that depended upon this man’s approval 
or disapproval. 

It was not with a stupid mind like that 
of Father Absinthe that he had to deal 
now, but with p superior intelligence. 

“If I could only plead my own cause,” 
he thought. “What are cold written 
phrases in comparison with spoken, liv- 
ing words, palpitating with emotion and 
with the convictions of the soul that 
utters them.” 

But he was soon reassured. 

The face of the judge retained its im- 
mobility, but he nodded his head in token 
of approval, and occasionally some point 
more ingenious than the others extorted 
from his lips the exclamation: “Not 
bad ! — very good !” 

When he had finished its perusal : 

# “All this,” he remarked to the commis- 
sioner, “is quite unlike your report of 
this morning, which represented this 
mysterious affair as a low broil between 
some miserable vagabonds.” 

This observation was only too just; 
and the commissioner deeply regretted 
that he had trusted to the representations 
of Gevrol, and remained warm in bed. 

“This morning,” he responded eva- 
sively, “I only gave my first impressions. 
These have been modified by subsequent 
researches, so that — ” 

“Oh!” interrupted the judge, “I did 
not intend to reproach you , on the con- 
trary, I must congratulate you. One 
could not have done bettei nor acted more 
promptly. All this instruction shows 
great penetration and research , and the 
results are given with unusual clearness 
and wonderful precision.” 

Lecoq’s head whirled. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


31 


The commissioner hesitated for an in- 
stan". 

He was sorely tempted to confiscate this 
praise to his own profit. 

If he drove away the unworthy thought, 
it was because lie was an honest man, 
and more than that, because it did not 
displease him to have an opportunity to 
do Gevrol a bad turn and punish him for 
his presumptuous folly. 

U I must confess,” he said with some 
hesitation, “that the honor of this inves- 
tigation does not belong to me.” 

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it, if 
not to the inspector?” thought M. d’Es- 
corval, not without surprise, for h iving 
occasionally employed Gevrol, he did not 
expect from him such ingenuity and sa- 
gacity as was displayed in this report. 

“Is it you, then, who have conducted 
this investigation so ably?” he demanded. 

“Upon my word, no !” responded In- 
spector Gevrol. I, myself, am not so 
clever as all that. I content myself with 
telling only what I discover ; and I say ; 
“Here it is !” May I be hung if the 
grounds of this report exist, except in 
the brain of the man who has made it.” 

Perhaps he really believed his asser- 
tion, being one of those persons who are 
blinded by vanity to such a degree that, 
with the most convincing evidence before 
their eyes, they deny it. 

“Yet,” insisted the judge, “these wo- 
men whose foot-prints were left here have 
existed. The accomplire who left the 
1 its of wool upon the plank is a real being. 
This ear-ring is apositlve, palpable proof.” 

Gevrol had hard work to refrain from 
shrugging his shoulders. 

“All this can be satisfactorily explained 
without a search of twelve or fourteen 
hours. That the murderer had an accom- 
plice, is possible. The presence of the 
women is very natural. Wherever there 
are men thieves, you .will find women 
thieves. As for the diamond — what does 
that prove ? That the scoundrels had just 
met with a streak of good luck, that they 
had come here to divide their booty, and 
that the quarrel arose from the division.” 

This 'was an explanation, and such a 
plausible ene, that M. d’Escorval was 
silent, reflecting before he announced his 
decision. 

“Decidedly,” he declared at last, “de- 
cidedly, I adopt the hypothesis set forth 
in the report. Who is the author of it?” 

Anger made GevroLs face as red as a 
lobster. 

“The author is one of my men,” he re- 
plied; “ a very clever and adroit man — 
Monsieur Lecoq. Come forward, Lecoq, 
that the judge may see you.” 

The young man advanced, his lips tightly 
compressed to conceal a smile of satisfac- 
tion. 

“My report is only a summary, mon- 


sieur,” he began; “but I have certain 
ideas ” 

“Which you will tell me when I ask 
for them,” interrupted the judge. 

And oblivious of Lecoq's chagrin, he 
took from the portfolio of his clerk two 
forms, which he filled up and handed to 
Gevrol, saying: 

“Here are two orders; take them to 
the station-house, where the accused and 
the mistress of this cabin are confined, 
and have them conducted to the prefec- 
ture, where they will be privately ex- 
amined.” 

When he had given these directions, 
M. d’Escorval was turning towards the 
physicians, when Lecoq, at the risk of a 
second rebuff, interposed. 

“May I venture,” he asked, “to beg 
monsieur to confide this mission to me?” 

“Impossible; I may have need of you 
here.” 

“I desired, monsieur, to collect certain 
evidence, and an opportunity to do so 
may not present itself again.” 

The judge, perhaps, fathomed the young 
man’s motive. 

“So be it,” fie replied ; “but after your 
task is completed you will await me at 
the prefecture, where I shall go as soon 
as I have finished here. Go.” 

Lecoq did not wait for him to repeat 
the order. He snatched up the papers, 
and hastened away. 

He did not run; he flew over the 
ground. He no longer experienced auy 
fatigue from the labors of the preceding 
night. Never had he felt so strong and 
alert in body, so strong and clear in 
mind. 

He was hopeful of success. He had 
confidence in himself, and he would have 
been perfectly happy if he could have 
had another judge to deal with. But M. 
d’Escorval overawed and froze him to 
such a degree that his mind seemed ab- 
solutely paralyzed in his presence. With 
what a disdainful glance he had surveyed 
him! With what an imperious tone he 
had imposed silence upon hm — and that, 
too, when he had found his work de- 
serving of commendation. 

“But nonsense!” he mentally ex- 
claimed, “does one ever taste perfect 
happiness here below?” 

And he hurried on. 


CHAPTER XI. 

When, after a rapid walk of twenty 
minutes, Lecoq reached the police sta- 
tion of the Barriere d’ltalie, the keeper, 
with his pipe in his mouth, was pacing 
slowly to and fro before the guard-house, 
By his thoughtful air, and by the 
anxious glance that he cast now and 
then upon the little grated window, any 


32 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


passer-by might have known that the 
keeper had at that moment a very rare 
bird in his cage. 

As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his 
brow cleared, and he paused in his prom- 
enade. 

“Ah, well!” he inquired, “what news?” 

“I bring an order to conduct the pris- 
oners to the prefecture.” 

The keeper rubbed his hands, evidently 
relieved. 

“Very well ! very well 1” he exclaimed. 
“The black Maria will pass here in less 
than an hour; we will throw them in, 
and hurry the coachman off ” 

Lecoq was obliged to interrupt his 
transports of satisfaction. 

“Are the prisoners alone?” he in- 
quired. 

“Entirely alone; the woman on her 
side of the hall, the man on the other. 
This has been a remarkably quiet night, 
a Shrove Sunday night, too ! It is sur- 
prising. It is true that your hunt was 
interrupted.” 

“You have had a drunken man here, 
however.” * 

“No — yes — that is a fact — this morn- 
ing, just at daybreak. A poor devil, who 
is under a great obligation to Gevrol.” 

The involuntary irony of this remark 
must have awakened Lecoq’s regrets. 

“Under a great obligation, indeed!” 
said he, approvingly, and with a laugh. 

“Although you seem inclined to laugh, 
such is really the case ; had it not been 
for Gevrol the man would certainly have 
been run over.” 

“And what has become of him?” 

The keeper shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah!” he responded. “You ask me 
too much. He was a very -worthy man. 
who had been spending the night at the 
house of one of his friends, and on 
coming out into the air, the wine Hew to 
his head. He told us all about it when 
he became sober, which was in the course 
of half an hour. I have never seen a 
man so vexed. lie wept, and said again 
and again: “The father of a family, 
and at my age ! Oh ! it is shameful ! 
What shall I say to my wife? What will 
the children think?” 

“Did he talk much about his -wife?” 

“He talked about nothing else. He 
even mentioned her name — Eudosia, Leo- 
cadie, or some name of that sort. He 
thought, poor man, that he was ruined, 
and that we would keep him here. He 
asked us to send for the commissioner, 
to go to his house? When we set him 
free, I thought he would go mad with 
joy; he kissed our hands, and he paid his 
score. Ah ! he did not even stop to ask 
for his change !” 

“And did you place him in the cage 
with the murderer?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Certainly.” 


“They have talked with each other 
then.” 

“Talked! The man was so drunk, I 
tell you, that he could not have said 
‘bread.’ When he was deposited in the 
cell, pouf ! he fell like a log. As soon as 
he recovered we let him out. No, they 
did not talk to each other.” 

The young policeman had become very 
thoughtful. 

“It was, indeed, so!” he murmured. 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing.” 

Lecoq was not inclined to communicate 
his reflections to the keeper of the guard- 
house. They were by no means agree- 
able. 

“I was right,” he thought; “this pre- 
tended drunken man was none other than 
the accomplice, and he has as much 
adroitness as he has audacity and cool- 
ness. While we were following his foot- 
prints he was watching us. We went 
away and he was bold enough to enter 
the hovel. Then he came here and com- 
pelled them to arrest him ; and thanks to 
an assumption of childish simplicity, he 
succeeded in finding an opportunity to 
speak to the murderer. How perfectly 
he has played his role. But I know that 
he played, a part, and that is something. 
I know that it will be necessary to be- 
lieve exactly the opposite of what he 
said. He talked of his family, of his 
wife, of his children — hence he has 
neither children, wife, nor family.” 

He checked himself suddenly ; he had 
forgotten, this was not the time to be- 
come absorbed in conjectures. 

“What kind of a looking man was this 
drunkard?” he inquired. 

“He was tall and very large, had a 
ruddy complexion, white wliiskers, a full 
face, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and 
a good-natured, jovial manner.” 

“How old would you suppose him to 
be?” 

“From forty to fifty years of age.” 

“Did you form any idea of his profes- 
sion?” 

u Ma Joi! the man with his soft cap 
and his heavy brown overcoat must be 
the keeper of some little shop, or a 
clerk.” 

Having obtained this sufficiently exact 
description, which accorded perfectly 
with the result of his investigations, Le- 
coq was about to enter the station-house 
when a sudden thought brought him in- 
stantly to a stand-still. 

“I hope, at least, that this man has 
had no communication with the Widow 
Chupin !” 

The keeper laughed heartily, 

“How could he have had any?” he re- 
sponded. “Is not the old woman alone 
in her cell? Ah, the old wretch! There 
has not been a moment that she was not 
cursing and threatening us. No, never 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


33 


in my whole life have I heard such lan- 
guage as she has used ! It was enough 
to make the very stones blush; even the 
drunken man was so shocked that he 
went to speak to her through the opening 
in the door, and to tell her to be *quiet.” 

The young man’s gesture was so ex- 
pressive of impatience and wrath that 
the keeper paused, much perturbed. 

“What is the matter?” he stammered. 
“Why are you angry?” 

“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, 
“because ” 

And not wishing to disclose the. real 
cause of his anger, he entered the station- 
house, saying that he wished to see the 
prisoner. 

Left alone the keeper began to sw'ear in 
his turn. 

“These agents of police are all alike,” 
he grumbled. “They question you, you 
tell them all they desire to know; and 
afterwards, if you venture to ask them 
anything, they reply : ‘■nothing," or ‘be- 
cause.’ They have too much authority ; 
it makes them proud.” 

Looking through the judas, a little lat- 
ticed window in the door,, through which 
the men on guard watch the prisoners, 
Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance 
of the murderer. 

He was obliged to ask himself if this 
was really the same man whom he had 
seen some hours previous at the Poivriere, 
standing upon the threshold, holding the 
squad in check by the intense fury of his 
hate, by his proud forehead, his spark- 
ling eyes, and his trembling lip. 

Now his whole person betrayed a piti- 
able weakness, utter despondency, gloom 
and despair. 

He was seated on a bench opposite the 
judas, with his elbows on his knees, and 
his chin resting upon his hand, his eyes 
fixed upon vacancy, his lower lip hang- 
ing. 

“No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this 
man is not what he seems to be.” 

He had looked at him ; he now wished 
to speak to him. He entered; the man 
raised his head, threw an expressionless 
glance upon him, but did not say a w r ord. 

“Well,” demanded the young officer, 
“how goes it?” 

“I am innocent !” responded the man, 
in a hoarse, discordant voice. 

“I hope so, I am sure — but that is for 
the judge to decide. I came to see if you 
did not need something.” 

“No.” 

A second later the murderer changed 
his mind. 

“If it is all the same to you, I would 
like a crust and a drink of wine.” 

“They shall bring it to you,” replied 
Lecoq. 

He went out immediately to forage in 
the neighborhood for eatables of some 
sort. lie was impressed with the idea 

3 


that in demanding a drink after a refusal, 
the man had thought only of carrying 
out his resemblance to the kind of man 
he pretended to be. 

Whoever he might be, the murderer 
ate with an excellent appetite. lie then 
took up the large glass of wine, drained 
it slowly, and said : 

“It is good! There can be nothing to 
beat that !” 

This satisfaction disappointed Lecoq. 
He had selected, as a test, one of those 
horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mix- 
tures which are in vogue around the 
barriere , and he expected some sign of 
dislike from the murderer. 

And there was none whatever. But 
he had not time to seek the conclusions 
to be drawn from this fact. The sound 
of wheels announced the arrival of that 
lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria. 

It was necessary to place the Widow 
Chupin in the vehicle by main force. 
She fought and scratched and cried 
“Murder !” with all her strength. Then 
the assassin was requested to take his 
place in the carriage. 

Now, at least, the young policeman 
counted upon some manifestation of re- 
pugnance, and he watched the prisoner 
closely. None! The man entered the 
frightful vehicle in the most unconcerned 
manner, and took possession of his com- 
partment like an old habitue, who knows 
the most comfortable position to assume 
in such close quarters. 

“Ah ! this is an unfortunate morning.” 
murmured Lecoq, much disappointed ; 
“but I will lie in wait for him at the pre- 
fecture’” 

CHAPTER XII. 


When the door of the prison-van had 
been securely closed, the driver cracked 
his whip, and the strong horses started 
off on a brisk trot. 

Lecoq had taken his seat in front, be- 
tween the driver and the guard; but his 
mind w r as so engrossed with his own 
thoughts that he heard nothing of their 
conversation, which was very jovial, al- 
though it was frequently disturbed by 
the shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, 
who sang and yelled her imprecations 
alternately. 

Lecoq was trying his best to discover 
a method by which he could surprise 
some clue to the secret which this mur- 
derer hid so cleverly, for he was still 
convinced that the prisoner must belong 
to the higher ranks of society. 

That this pretender had succeeded in 
feigning an appetite, that he had con- 
cealed his distaste for a nauseous bever- 
age, that he had entered the black Maria 
without hesitation, was nothing extraor- 


( 


34 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


dinary after all, in a man who was en- 
dowed with much strength of will, when 
he realized the imminence of his peril, 
and when his powers of endurance were 
increased tenfold by the hope of salva- 
tion. 

But would he be able to hide his feel- 
ings as well when he was obliged to sub- 
mit to the humiliating formalities that 
awaited him — formalities which, in cer- 
tain cases can, and must be, pushed even 
to the verge of insult and outrage? 

No ; Lecoq could not believe that this 
would be possible. 

He was very sure that the horror that 
would be inspired in ihe prisoner’s mind 
by the disgrace, and by the violation of 
all delicacy of feeling, would cause the 
man to revolt, to lose his self-control, 
and draw from him some word that 
would give the desired clue. 

It w r as not until the gloomy vehicle 
had left the Pout-Neuf to take the Quai 
de l’Horloge, that the young detective 
became conscious of what was passing 
around him. Soon the van turned into 
a gate-way, and stopped in a small, damp 
courtyard. 

Lecoq was instantly on the ground. 
He opened the door of the compartment 
in which the murderer was confined, and 
said : 

u We are here; descend.” 

There was no danger that the prisoner 
would escape. The iron gate had been 
closed, and at least a dozen policemen 
and agents were standing near, anxious 
to see the harvest of the previous night. 

When the door w r as opened, the mur- 
derer slowly stepped down from the 
vehicle. 

His expression did not change in the 
least. His face evinced the perfect 
indifference of a man accustomed to such 
ordeals. 

An anatomist studying the movement 
of a muscle could not have watched with 
a closer attention than Lecoq bestowed 
upon the attitude, the face, and the 
aspect of the prisoner. 

When the prisoner's foot touched the 
pavement of the court-yard, he seemed 
to experience a sensation of satisfaction ; 
he drew a long breath, then he stretched 
himself, and shook himself violently, as 
if to regain the elasticity of his limbs, 
cramped by confinement in the narrow 
compartment from which he had just 
emerged. 

Then he glanced about him, and a 
scarcely perceptible smile played upon 
his lips. 

One would have sworn that the place 
was familiar to him, that he had seen 
before these high grim walls, these grated 
windows, these heavy doors — in short, 
all the sinister belongings of a prison. 

“ Mon Dieu /” thought Lecoq, greatly 


chagrined, “does he indeed recognize 
the place?” 

The young man’s disquietude increased 
when he saw the prisoner, without wait- 
ing for a word, for a motion, for a sign, 
turn towards one of the five or six doors 
that opened upon the court-yard. 

He walked straight to the one he was 
expected to enter — straight, without an 
instant’s hesitation. Was it chance? 

His amazement and disappointment 
increased tenfold when he saw the man, 
after entering the gloomy corridor, walk 
on some littie distance, turn to the left, 
pass the room of the keeper, and enter 
the register’s office. 

An old offender could not have done 
better. 

Lecoq found a cold sweat break out 
upon his whole body. 

“This man.” thought he, “has certainly 
been here before; he knows the ropes.” 

The register’s office was a large room, 
badly lighted by small window's, whose 
panes were covered with a thick coating 
of dust, and heated almost to suffocation 
by an immense stove. 

There sat the clerk reading a paper 
that was laid over the register — the 
gloomy register in which are inscribed 
the names of all those whom misconduct, 
crime, misfortune, madness, or error 
have brought to these grim portals. 

Three or four watchmen who were 
awaiting the hour for entering upon their 
duties, were half asleep upon the w'ooden 
benches that lined three sides of the 
room. 

These benches, two tables, and some 
broken chairs, constituted the furniture 
of the office. 

In one corner stood a measuring ma- 
chine, under which each culprit w r as 
obliged to pass. For their exact height 
was recorded in order that the description 
might be complete in every respect. 

At the entrance of the culprit accom- 
panied by Lecoq, tile clerk raised his 
head. 

“Ah!” said he, “has the van come?” 

“Yes,” responded Lecoq. 

And extending the orders signed by 
M. d’Escorval, he added : 

“Here are the papers for this man.” 

The registei cook the documents and 
read thenf. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, a triple assassi- 
nation ! oh ! jh !” 

Positivel) he regarded the prisoner 
with great ionsideration. This w r as not 
a common culprit, an ordinary vagabond, 
a vulgar thief. 

“The judge orders a private examina- 
tion,” he continued, “and I must get 
him other clothing. The clothing he is 
wearing now' will be used as evidence. 
Let some one go at once and tell the 
superintendent that the other occupants 
of the carriage must wait. I will meas- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


35 


ure this man’s height in compliance with 
the rules.” 

The director was not far off, and he 
soon made his appearance. The clerk 
had prepared his register. 

“Your name?” he demanded first. 

“May.” 

“Your first name?” 

“I have none.” 

“What, you have no Christian name?” 

The murderer seemed to reflect for a 
moment, then he said, sulkily : 

“I may as well tell you that you need 
not wear yourself out questioning me. I 
shall reply only to the judge. You would 
like to make me cut my own throat, 
wouldn’t you? It is a very clever trick, 
but I understand it.” 

“You must see that you only aggra- 
vate your situation,” observed the direc- 
tor. 

i “Not in the least. I am innocent; you 
wish to ruin me. I only defend myself. 
Get anything more out of me now, if you 
can. But you had better give me back 
the money that they took from me at the 
station-house. One hundred and thirty- 
six francs, eight sous ! I shall need them 
when I get out of this place. I wish 
you to make a note of them on the regis- 
ter. Where are they ?” 

The money had been given to Lecoq 
by the keeper of the station-house, who 
had found it upon the prisoner when he 
was placed in his custody. Lecoq de- 
posited it upon the table. 

“Here are your hundred and thirty-six 
francs and eight sous,” said he, “and 
also your knife, your handkerchief, and 
four cigars.” 

An expression of lively contentment 
was discernible on the prisoner's fea- 
tures. 

“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you 
answer ?” 

But the director understood the use- 
lessness of further insistence ; he silenced 
the clerk by a gesture, and addressing 
the prisoner, he said : 

“Take off your shoes.” 

On receiving this order, Lecoq thought 
the assassin’s glance wavered. Was it 
only a fancy? 

“Why must I do that?” he demanded. 

“To pass under the beam,” responded 
the clerk. “We must make a note of 
your exact height.” 

The prisoner made no reply, he sat 
down and drew off his heavy leather 
boots. The heel of the right one was 
run over on the inside. He wore no 
stockings. 

“You do not wear shoes except on 
Sunday, then?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Why do you think that?” 

“By the mud with which your feet are 
covered, as high as the ankle-bone.” 

“And what of that?” exclaimed the 


man, in an insolent tone. “Is it a crime 
not to have the feet of a marquise?” 

“It is a crime of which you are not 
guilty, at all events,” said the young de- 
tective, slowly. “Do you think that I 
cannot see, in spite of the mud, that your 
feet are white and neat ? The nails have 
been carefully cut and polished ” 

He paused. A lightning flash of his 
genius for investigation traversed his 
brain. 

He pushed forward a chair, laid a 
paper upon it, and said : 

“Will you place your foot there?” 

The man did not comply with the re- 
quest. 

“Ah! do not resist,” insisted the di- 
rector; “we are in force.” 

The prisoner made no further resist- 
ance. He placed his foot upon the chair, 
as he had been ordered to do, and Lecoq, 
with the aid of a knife, proceeded to re- 
move the fragments of mud that adhered 
to the skin. 

Anywhere else, they would have 
laughed at such an act, so mysterious, 
strange and grotesque, all at the same 
time. But in this ante-chamber of the 
court of assizes, the most trivial acts are 
tinged with a shade of gloom ; a laugh is 
easily frozen upon the lips, and one is 
astonished by nothing. 

All the spectators, from the director 
down to the guards, had witnessed many 
other incidents equally absurd; and it 
did not enter the mind of any one pre- 
sent to inquire the detective’s motive. 

This much they knew already : that 
the prisoner was intending to conceal his 
identity, that it w-as necessary to estab- 
lish it. at any cost, and that Lecoq had 
probably invented some method of at- 
taining this end. 

Besides, the operation was soon con- 
cluded; and Lecoq brushed the dust from 
the paper into the palm of his hand. 

This dust he divided into two parts. 
One portion he inclosed in a scrap of 
paper, and then slipped it into his own 
pocket ; the other package he handed to 
the director, saying, as he did so : 

“I must beg you, monsieur, to receive 
this on deposit, and to seal it up here, in 
the presence of the prisoner. This is 
necessary, that he may not claim by and 
by that in place of this dust other has 
been substituted.” 

The superintendent complied with the 
request, and as he placed this “bit of 
proof” (as he styled it) in a small satchel 
for safe keeping, the murderer shrugged 
his. shoulders with a sneering laugh. 

It is true that beneath this cynical gay- 
ety Lecoq thought he could detect poig- 
nant anxiety. 

Chance owed him the compensation of 
this slight triumph ; for previous events 
had deceived all his calculations. 

The prisoner did not offer the slightest 


36 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


objection when he was ordered to un- 
dress, and to exchange his soiled and 
blood-stained garments for the clothing 
furnished by the government. 

Not a muscle of his face betrayed the 
secret of his soul, while he submitted his 
person to one of those ignominious ex- 
aminations which make the blood mount 
to the forehead of the lowest criminal. 

It was with perfect indifference that he 
allowed the inspector to comb his hair 
and his beard, and to examine the inte- 
rior of his mouth, in order to make sure 
that he had not concealed in one of these 
hiding-places a fragment of glass, by the 
aid of which captives can sever the 
strongest bars ; or one of those micros- 
copic bits of lead that prisoners use in 
writing the notes which they exchange, 
rolled up in a morsel of bread, and which 
they call “postilions.” 

These formalities having been con- 
cluded, the superintendent rang for one 
of the guard. 

“Conduct this man to No. 3 of the se- 
cret cells,” he ordered. 

There was no need to drag the prisoner 
away. He went out, as he had entered, 
preceding the guard, like an old habitue , 
who knows where he is going. 

“What a rascal !” exclaimed the clerk. 

“Then you think ” began Lecoq, 

baffled but not convinced. 

“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” de- 
clared the director. “This man is cer- 
tainly a dangerous malefactor — an old 
offender — I think I have seen him before 
— I could almost swear to it.” 

So these people, who had such a large 
and varied experience, shared Gevroi’s 
opinion ; Lecoq stood alone. 

He did not discuss the matter — what 
good would it have done? Besides, they 
were just bringing in the Widow Chupin. 

The journey must have calmed her 
nerves, for she had become as gentle as 
a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, 
and with tearful eyes, that she called 
upon these “good gentlemen” to witness 
the shameful injustice with which she 
was treated — she, an honest woman. She 
was the support of the family (since her 
son Polyte was in custody, charged with 
pocket-picking), and what would become 
of her daughter-in-law, and her grand- 
son Toto., who had no one to look to but 
her? 

But when they were leading her away, 
after she had given her full name, she 
no sooner entered the corridor than na- 
ture reasserted itself, and they heard her 
quarreling with the guard. 

“You are wrong not to be polite,” she 
was saying to him; “you are losing a 
good fee, without counting many a good 
drink that I would give you without 
charge, when I get out of here.” 

“The examinations were over, and Le- 
coq was free until the arrival of M. d’Es- 


corval. He w r andered through the corri- 
dors, and from room to room ; but, as he 
was questioned on every side, he went 
out and sat down upon the quay to col- 
lect his thoughts. 

His convictions were unchanged. . He 
was still more convinced that the prison- 
er was concealing his real social condi- 
tion ; but, on the other hand, it was evi- 
dent that the man was well acquainted 
with the prison and with its usages. 

He had also proved himself to be much 
more clever — a thousand times more 
clever — than Lecoq had supposed. 

What self-control! What powers of 
dissimulation ! He had not so much as 
frowned while undergoing the severest 
ordeals, and he had deceived the most 
experienced eyes in Paris. 

The young detective had been w r aiting 
there nearly three hours, as motionless 
as the post upon which he was seated, 
and alike insensible to the cold and to the 
flight of time, when a coupe drew up before 
the entrance of the prison, and M. d’Escor- 
val descended, followed by his clerk. 

Lecoq rose and hastened towards them, 
breathless with anxiety. 

“My researches on the spot,” said the 
judge, “confirm me in my belief that you 
are right. Is there anything new?” 

“ Yes, monsieur ; a fact apparently very 
trivial, but of an importance that ” 

“Very well!” interrupted the judge. 
“You will explain this to me by and by. 
I wish first to make a summary exami- 
nation of the accused parties. A mere 
matter of form to-day. Wait for me 
here.” 

Although the judge promised to make 
haste, Lecoq expected that at least an 
hour would elapse before he reappeared. 
But he was wrong. Twenty minutes had 
not passed before M. d’Escorval emerged 
from the prison without his clerk. 

He walked very quickly, and calling to 
the young detective from some little dis- 
tance, he said : 

“I must return home at once — instant- 
ly; I cannot listen to you.” 

“But, monsieur ” 

“Enough! the bodies of the victims 
have been taken to the morgue. Keep a 
sharp look-out there. Then, this evening 

make Well — do whatever you think 

best.” 

“But, monsieur, I must ” 

“To-morrow ! — to-morrow at 9 o'clock, 
in my office in the Palais de Justice.” 

Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, 
but M. d’Escorval had entered, or rather 
had thrown himself, into his coupe, and 
the coachman was cracking his whip. 

“And he is a judge !” murmured the 
young man, left panting upon the quay. 
“Has he gone mad?” 

And an uncharitable thought entered 
his mind. 

“Can it be,” he murmured, “that he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


37 


holds the key to the mj T story? Does he 
not desire to get rid of me.” 

This suspicion was so terrible that he 
hastened back to the prison, hoping to 
gain some light from the bearing of the 
prisoner, and ran to peer through the 
little aperture in the heavy door leading 
into the cell. 

The murderer was lying upon the pal- 
let that stood directly opposite the door. 
His face was turned towards the wall, 
and he was enveloped to the very eyes in 
the coverlid. 

Was he asleep? No ; for Lecoq detect- 
ed a strange movement of the body. 
This movement, which he could not ex- 
plain, annoyed him. lie applied his ear 
instead of his eye to the aperture, and he 
distinguished a stifled moan. There could 
no longer be any doubt. The death rattle 
was sounding in the prisoner's throat. 

“Here! here!” cried Lecoq. greatly ex- 
cited. “Help ! help !” 

Ten guards came running at his call. 

“The prisoner! He is killing himself!” 

They opened the door; it was time. 

The poor wretch had torn a binding 
from his clothing, had tied it around his 
neck, and using in place of a tourniquet a 
tin spoon that had been brought in with 
his allowance of food, he was strangling 
himself. 

The prison doctor, who had been sent 
for, and who immediately bled the pris- 
oner, declared that in ten minutes all 
would have been over. 

When the murderer regained conscious- 
ness, he gazed about his cell with a wild, 
idiotic stare. One might have supposed 
that he was amazed to find himself still 
alive. Then a great tear welled from his 
swollen eyelids, and rolled down his 
cheek. 

They pressed him with questions — not a 
word in response. 

“Since he is in such a frame of mind, 
and since we cannot give him a compan- 
ion, as he has been sentenced to solitary 
confinement, we must put him in a 
straight jacket.” 

After he had assisted in binding the 
prisoner, Lecoq went away, very thought- 
ful, and painfull}’' agitated. He felt that 
this veil of mystery hid some terrible 
drama. 

“But what has occurred?” he mur- 
mured. “Has this unfortunate man, who 
tried to destroy himself, confessed all to 
the judge? Why should he have com- 
mitted such an act of desperation?” 


CHAPTER XHL 

Lecoq did not sleep any that night. 
And yet he had been on his feet for more 
than forty hour's, and had scarcely paused 
to eat or to drink. 


But anxietv, hope, and even fatigue it- 
self. imparted to his body the factitious 
strength of fever, and to his intellect that 
unhealthy acuteness which is the result 
of intense mental effort. 

lie no longer occupied himself in pur- 
suing imaginary deductions, as he had 
done when in the employ of his patron, 
the astronomer. Facts were more start- 
ling than chimeras. They were onl}' too 
real — the dead bodies of the three victims 
that were lying on the marble slab of the 
morgue. 

But if the catastrophe itself was certain, 
beyond the shadow of a doubt, everything 
connected with it could only be conjec- 
tured. Not a witness could be found to 
tell what circumstances had preceded 
and paved the way for this terrible de- 
nouement. 

One discovery, it is true, would suffice 
to dissipate these doubts, and that was 
the identity of the murderer. 

Who was he? Which was right? — Gev- 
rol, upheld by all the men at the prison, 
or Lecoq, who stood alone? 

Gevrol’s opinion was based upon for- 
midable proof, the evidence that enters 
the mind through the sense of sight. 

Lecoq’s hypothesis was based only upon 
a series of subtle observations, and of de- 
ductions whose starting point, was a sin- 
gle sentence, which had fallen from the 
lips of the murderer. 

And yet Lecoq did not feel the least 
particle of uncertainty after his short 
conversation with M. d’Escorval’s clerk, 
whom he met as he was leaving the pris- 
on. 

This worthy young man, when adroitly 
interrogated by Lecoq, was easily persua- 
ded to reveal what had passed between 
the prisoner and the judge. 

It was, one might say, nothing at all. 

The murderer, so the clerk declared, 
had not only refused to make any confes- 
sion to M. d'Escorval, but he had replied 
in the most evasive manner to all the 
questions which had been put to him; 
and in several instances lie had not replied 
at all. 

And if the judge had not insisted upon 
a reply, it was only because this first ex- 
amination was'a mere formality, intended 
to justify the rather premature delivery 
of the order to imprison the accused, 

Under these circumstances, how was 
one to explain this act of despair on the 
part of the prisoner ? 

The statistics of prisons prove that 
“habitual offenders” (that is the expres- 
sion) do not commit suicide. 

When detected in a criminal act, some 
members of this class are seized with a 
wild frenzy, and have what are styled 
nervous attacks; others fall into a dull 
stupor, like a glutted beast who falls 
asleep with the blood of his victim upon 
liis lips. 


38 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


But such men never think of putting 
an end to their days. They hold fast to 
their life, no matter how seriously they 
may be compromised. They are cowards. 

On the other hand, the unfortunate 
man who, in a moment of frenzy, com- 
mits some crime, not unfrequently seeks 
to avoid the consequences of his act by 
a voluntary death. 

Hence this abortive attempt on the part 
of the accused was a strong argument 
in favor of Lecoq’s theory. 

This wretched man’s secret must be a 
terrible one, since he holds it dearer than 
his life, since he has tried to destroy him- 
self that he might take it inviolate to 
the grave. 

Four o’clock sounded. 

Quickly Lecoq sprang from the bed, 
where he had thrown himself down with- 
out removing his clothing ; and five min- 
utes later he was walking down the Rue 
Montmartre. 

The weather was still disagreeable; 
the fog had not lifted. But what did it 
matter to the young detective? 

He was walking briskly on, when, just 
as he reached Saint Eustache, some one 
in a coarse, mocking voice accosted him 
with : 

“Ah, ha ! my fine fellow !” 

He looked up and perceived Gevrol, 
who, accompanied by three of his men, 
had come to cast his nets near the mar- 
ket. It is a good place. The police sel- 
dom fail to find thieves and vagabonds 
lurking around the establishment kept 
open during the night by the hucksters. 

“You are up very early this morning. 
Monsieur Lecoq,” continued the in- 
spector; “you are still trying to discover 
our man’s identity, I suppose?” 

“Still trying.” 

“Is he a prince in disguise, or only a 
simple marquis?” 

“One or the other, I am quite certain.” 

Very well. In that case you will not 
refuse to give us r an opportunity to drink 
to your success.” 

Lecoq consented, and the party entered 
a saloon near by. When the glasses 
were filled : 

“Upon my word, General,” exclaimed 
Lecoq, “our meeting will save me a long 
walk. I was intending to go to the pre- 
fecture to request you, m behalf of 
M. d’Escorval, to send one of our com- 
rades to the morgue this morning. The 
affair at the Poivriere has been noised 
about, and all the world will be there, 
and he desires some officer to be present 
to watch the crowd and listen to the 
remarks of the visitors.” 

“Very well ; Father Absinthe shall be 
there at the opening.” 

To send Father Absinthe where a 
shrewd and subtle agent was required 
was a mockery. Still Lecoq made no 
protest against this decision. It was 


better to be badly served than to bo 
betrayed; and he could trust Father 
Absinthe. 

“It does not matter much,” continued 
Gevrol ; “but you should have informed 
me of this last evening. But when I 
reached the prefecture you had gone.” 

“I had business.” 

“Yes?” 

“At the station-house at the Barriere 
D’ltalie. I wished to know whether the 
floor of the cage was paved or tiled.” 

After this response, he paid the score, 
saluted his superior officer, and went out. 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, strik- 
ing his glass violently, upon the counter. 
“Thunder ! how that fellow provokes me ! 
He does not know the A B C’s of his pro- 
fession. When he can discover nothing, 
he invents wonderful stories, and then 
misleads the judges with his high-sound- 
ing phrases, in the hope of winning 
promotion. I will give him advance- 
ment with a vengeance ! I will teach 
him to set himself above me !” 

Lecoq had not been deceived. The 
evening before, he had visited the station- 
house where the prisoner had first been 
confined, and had compared the soil of 
the cell floor with the dust he had in his 
pocket ; and he took away with him, as 
lie believed, one of those crushing proofs 
that often suffice to extort from the most 
obstinate criminal a complete confession. 

If he was in haste to part company 
with Gevrol, it was because he was eager 
to pursue his investigations still further, 
before appearing in the presence of 
M. d’Escorval. 

He was determined to find the coachman 
who had been stopped by the two women 
on the Rue du Chevaleret; and with 
this object in view, he had obtained at 
the prefecture the name and address of 
each person who had carriages for hire, 
between the road to Fontainebleau and 
the Seine. 

His first efforts at investigation were 
unfortunate. 

In the first establishment which he 
visited, the stable boys, who were not 
yet up, swore at him roundly. In the 
second, he found the grooms at work, 
but not a coachman had made his appear- 
ance. j 

Moreover, the proprietor of the estab- 
lishment refused to show him the books 
upon which are recorded — or should be 
recorded — the daily engagements of each 
coachman. 

He was beginning to despair, when at 
about half-past seven o'clock he reached 
the house of a man named Trigault, 
whose establishment was just beyond the 
fortifications. Here he learned that on 
Sunday night, or rather early Monday 
morning, one of the coachmen, as he was 
returning home for the night, had been 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


39 


accosted by some parties, who succeeded 
in persuading him to go back to Paris. 

This coachman was pointed out to 
Lecoq; he was then in the court-yard 
harnessing his horse. 

He was a little old man, "with a very 
high color, and small eyes full of cun- 
ning. Lecoq walked up to him at onc.c. 

u Was it you,” he demanded, “who, 
on Sunday night, or rather on Monday, 
between one and two o’clock in the morn- 
ing, took two women from the Rue du 
Chevaleret to the city?” 

The coachman looked up, and survejr- 
ing Lecoq attentively, cautiously replied : 

“Perhaps.” 

“It is a positive answer that I want.” 

“Aha!” said the old man, sneeringly, 
“monsieur undoubtedly knows two ladies 
who have lost something in a carriage, 
and so ” 

The young detective trembled with 
joy. This man was certainly the one 
whom he sought ; he interrupted him : 

“Have you heard anything about a 
crime that has been committed in the 
neighborhood?” 

“Yes; a murder in a low drinking sa- 
loon.” 

“Very well! These two women were 
there; they fled when we entered the 
saloon. I am trying to find them. I am 
an agent of the safety-service ; here is 
my card. Can you give me any infor- 
mation?” 

The coachman had become very pale. 

“Ah! the wretches!” he exclaimed. 
“I am no longer surprised at the pour- 
boire they gave me. A louis, and two 
one-hundred sou pieces for the fare — 
thirty francs in all. Cursed money! if 
I had not spent it, I would throw it 
away !” 

“And where did you carry them!” 

“To the Rue de Bourgogne. I have 
forgotten the number, but 1 should rec- 
ognize the house.” 

“Unfortunately they would not have 
you leave them at their own door.” 

“Who knows? I saw them ring; they 
pulled the bell, and I think they entered 
just as I drove away. Shall I take you 
there?” 

Lecoq’s sole response was to spring 
upon the driver’s seat, exclaiming : 

“Let us be off.” 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Was one to suppose that the women 
who escaped from the Widow Chupin’s 
saloon at the moment of the murder were 
utterly devoid of intelligence? 

No! 

Was it possible that these two fugitives, 
conscious as they were of their perilous 
situation, would have gone to their real 


home in a carriage hired on the public 
highway? 

No, again. 

Then the hope of finding them mani- 
fested by the coachman was chimerical. 

Lecoq felt this, and yet he had not 
hesitated an instant before leaping upon 
the seat, and giving the signal to depart. 

By doing this, he obeyed a maxim 
which he had fabricated in his hours of 
meditation, a maxim which was to assure 
his fame in after days, and which reads 
as follows : 

“In the matter of information, above 
all, regard with suspicion that which 
seems probable. Begin always by be- 
lieving what seems incredible.” 

While arriving at these conclusions, 
the young detective was ingratiating 
himself into the good graces of the coach- 
man, thereby winning all the information 
that this worthy had it in his power to 
bestow. 

It was also a way that Lecoq had de- 
vised to get back to the heart of Paris 
more quickly., 

He was not deceived in this last calcu- 
lation. 

The horse pricked up his ears and quick- 
ened his pace when his master cried: 
“Hi, there, Cocotle!” in tones that the 
poor beast knew would admit of no tri- 
fling. 

In less than no time the carriage 
reached the Route de Choisy, and then 
Lecoq resumed his inquiries. 

“Well, my good man,” he began, “you 
have told me the principal facts, now I 
would like the details. How did these 
two women attract your attention?” 

“It was all very simple. I had been hav- 
ing a most unfortunate day — six hours 
standing in line upon the boulevards, the 
rain pouring down all the time. What 
misery ! At midnight I had gained only 
thirty sous of pour-boire , all told. Still 
I was so chilled through, and my horse 
w’as so tired, that I decided to return. 
I was grumbling not a little, as you may 
suppose! After passing the corner of 
the Rue Picard, on the Rue du Chevaleret, 
I saw two women standing under a street 
lamp, some distance from me. Natural^, 
I did not pay any attention to them ; for 
when a man is as old as I am, women 
** 

“Go on !” said Lecoq, who could not 
restrain his impatience. 

“I had passed them, when they began 
to call: “Coachman! coachman?’ I pre- 
tended I did not hear them ; but one of them 
ran after me, crying : ‘A louis ! a louis 
for pour-boire /” I deliberated for a mo- 
ment, when, as if to conquer my hesi- 
tancy, the woman added : ‘And ten francs 
for fare !’ Of course, I stopped at once.” 

Lecoq was boiling over with impa- 
tience ; but he felt that direct and hurried 
questions would be useless. The wisest 


40 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


course was to listen to all the man had to 
say. 

“As you may suppose,” continued the 
coachman, “one is not inclined to trust 
two such suspicious characters, alone at 
that hour, in that part of the city. So 
when they were about to enter the car- 
riage, I cried: ‘Halt there! my little 
friends, you have promised papa some 
sous; where are they?’ The one who 
had called me at once handed me thirty 
francs, saying : ‘Above all, make haste !’ ” 

“It would be impossible to be 'more ex- 
act,” said the young man, approvingly. 
“Now, how about these two women?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean what kind of people did they 
seem to be; for what would you have 
taken them?” 

The man’s red face expanded under the 
influence of a broad smile. 

“Well! — I took them to be nothing 
very good,” he replied. 

“Ah! and how were they dressed?” 

“Like other girls who go to dance at 
the Rainbow, you know. But one of 
them was very neat and trig, while the 
other — well ! she was a terrible dowdy.” 

“Which one ran after you?” 

“The neatly dressed girl, the one who 

He paused suddenly ; so vivid was the 
remembrance that ‘ passed through his 
brain, that he jerked the reins and 
brought his horse to a stand-still. 

“Thunder!” he exclaimed, “now I 
think of it, I did notice something 
strange, One of the two women called 
the other madame, as large as life, while 
the other said thee and thou, and spoke 
rather harshly to her companion.” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the young 
detective, in three different keys. “And 
which, if you please, said thou?” 

“ The shabbily dressed one. She 
couldn't put two feet in one shoe, that 
woman couldn’t. She shook the other, 
the trig-looking girl, as if she were a 
plum tree. ‘Wretch !' said she, ‘do you 
wish to ruin us. You can faint when we 
get home if you wish ; come along ! ’ 
And the other replied, so.bbing : ‘Indeed, 
madame, indeed, I cannot !” She really 
did seem unable to move; in fact, she 
seemed so ill that I said to myself : ‘Here 
is a young woman who has drank more 
than a sufficiency ! ’ ” 

These facts confirmed while they cor- 
rected Lecoq's first supposition. 

As he had suspected, the social position 
of the two women was not the same. 

He had been mistaken, however, in 
attributing the pre-eminence to the wo- 
man wearing the small shoes with the 
high heels, whose impressions upon the 
snow had revealed her weakness. 

This pre-eminence belonged to her who 
had left the prints of the large, broad 


shoes ; and superior in her rank, she had 
been so in her energy. 

Until now Lecoq had been satisfied that 
she was the servant and the other the 
mistress. 

“Is this all, my good fellow!” he asked 
his companion. 

“All,” replied the coachman, “except 
I noticed that the shabbily-dressed wo- 
man who paid me had a hand — well, as 
small as an infant's ; and in spite of her 
anger, her voice was as sweet as music.” 

“Did you see her face?” 

“I just caught a glimpse of it.” 

“Could you tell if she were pretty, or 
whether she was a blonde or a bru- 
nette?” 

So many questions at a time confused 
the worthy coachman. 

“Stop a m nute!” he replied. “In my 
opinion she was not pretty, and I do not 
believe she was young, but she certainly 
was a blonde, with plenty of hair.” 

“Was she tall or short; stout, or slen- 
der?” 

“Between the two.” 

This was ver y vague. 

“And the other,” demanded Lecoq, 
“the neatlv-dressed one?” 

“The devil! As for her, I did not 
notice her at all; she was very small, 
that is all I know about her.” 

“Would you recognize her if you 
should meet her again?” 

“Thunder! no.” 

The carriage had traversed about half 
of the Rue de Bourgogne ; the coachman 
stopped his horse and said : 

“Attention ! That is the house which 
the two women entered.” 

To draw off the silk handkerchief that 
served him as a muffler, to fold it and slip 
it into his pocket, to spring to the ground 
and enter the house indicated, was the 
work of an instant only for the young 
detective. 

In the concierge's little room an old 
woman was seated knitting. 

“Madame,” said Lecoq, politely, pre- 
senting her w r ith the silk handkerchief, 
“I came here to return this article to one 
of your lodgers.” 

“To which one?” 

“Really, that is something I do not 
know.” 

The worthy concierge for a moment 
supposed that this extremely polite young 
man was mocking her. 

“Villainous wretch !” she began. 

“Pardon,” interrupted Lecoq; “allow 
me to finish. This is my explanation : 
Night before last, or rather day before 
yesterday morning, about three o’clock, 
I was quietly returning home, when, not 
far from here, two ladies who seemed to 
be in a great hurry passed me. One of 
them dropped this— I picked it up, and 
of course hastened after them to return 
it. But my labor was lost ; they had al- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


41 


ready entered here. At such an hour I 
did not like to ring, for fear of disturb- 
ing you. Yesterday I was very busy, 
but to-day I came to return the article : 
here it is.” 

He laid the handkerchief upon the 
table, and pretended that he was about 
to go, but the concierge detained him. 

‘•Many thanks for your kindness,” said 
she, “but you can keep it. Here, in this 
house, we have no ladies who return 
home alone after midnight.” 

““Still I have eyes,” insisted Lecoq, 
“and I certainly saw ” 

“Ah! I had forgotten,” exclaimed the 
old woman. “The night you speak of 
some one did ring the bell here. I opened 
my door and listened — I heard nothing. 
Not hearing any one close the door or 
come up-stairs, I said to myself: ‘It is 
some mischievous boy playing a trick on 
me. I slipped on my dress and went 
out into the vestibule. What did I see? 
Two shadowy forms running away; as 
they ran they slammed the outer door in 
my face. I opened it again as quickly as 
I could, and looked out into the street. 
What did I see then? Two women hur- 
rying away as fast as they could.” 

“In what direction?” 

“They were running towards the Rue 
de Varennes.” 

Lecoq was baffled again; he' bowed 
civilly to the concierge, whom he might 
have need of again, and went back to the 
carriage. 

“As I had supposed, they do not live 
here,” he remarked to the coachman. 

That worthy man shrugged his shoul- 
ders in evident vexation ; and his wrath 
was about to find vent in a torrent of 
words, when Lecoq, who had consulted 
his watch, checked it by saying : 

“Nine o’clock! — I shall be an hour 
behind time, but I shall have some news 
to tell. Take me to the morgue as quick- 
ly as possible. 


CHAPTER XY. 

The days that follow mysterious crimes 
and catastrophes, whose victims have not 
been recognised, are great days at the 
morgue. 

The employes hasten about exchanging 
jests that make one’s flesh creep. Al- 
most all of them are very gay. Perhaps 
it is from an imperious need to arm them- 
selves against the horrible gloom that 
surrounds them. 

“We shall have the world and his wife 
here to-day,” they say. 

And, in fact, as soon as Lecoq and his 
coachman reached the quay, they could 
see in the distance the dense and excited 
crowd which had gathered around that 
chamber of horrors. 


The newspapers had reported the affair 
that had taken place in the. Widow Chu- 
pin's saloon, and everybody wished to 
see the victims. 

Upon the bridge Lecoq made the driver 
stop his horse, and leaped to the ground. 

“I do not wish to get out of the car- 
riage before the morgue,” he said to the 
coachman. 

Then drawing out, first his watch, and 
then his purse, he said . 

“We have spent one hour and forty 
minutes, my good fellow, consequently, 
I owe you ” 

“Nothing at all,” replied the coach- 
man, decidedly. 

“But ” 

“No — not a sou. I am too much pro- 
voked to think that I took the money of 
those abominable jades ! I wish what I 
bought to drink with their money had giv- 
en me the colic. So pray feel no uneasiness 
about the score. If you need a carriage, 
take mine for nothing, until you have 
caught the wretches.” 

Lecoq at that time was by no means 
rich, and he did not insist. 

“You will at least take my name and 
my address?” continued the coachman. 

“Certainly. The judge will wish to 
hear your deposition. You will receive 
a summons.” 

“Very well. Address Papillon (Eu- 
gene), coachman, at the house of M. 
Trigault. I lodge there, because I have 
some small interest in the business, you 
see.” 

The young policeman was hastening 
away, when Papillon called him back. 

“When you leave the morgue you will 
want to go somewhere — you told me 
that you had an appointment, and that 
you were late now.” 

“Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de 
Justice ; but it is only a few steps from 
here.” 

“No matter. I am going to wait for 
you at the corner. Ah ! it is useless to 
say ‘no’ ; I have made up my mind, and 
I am a Breton. I have a favor to ask of 
you. Ride out that thirty francs that 
those jades paid me.” 

It would have been cruel to refuse 
such a request. Lecoq made a motion 
of assent, and hurried towards the 
morgue. 

If there was a crowd outside, it was 
because the gloomy place was full, liter- 
ally packed inside. 

Lecoq, to effect an entrance, “was obliged 
to use his elbows vigorously. 

Within the sight was horrible; and it 
was terrible to think what disgusting sen- 
sations and emotions that ferocious throng 
had come to seek there. 

There were women in great numbers, 
and crowds of young maidens. 

The shop girls and the workmen who 
reside in the neighborhood made a detour , 


42 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


in order to come and look upon the harvest 
of dead bodies which crime, carriage acci- 
dents, the Seine, and the canal St. Martin 
gather each day for the morgue. The 
most sensitive came no farther than the 
door , the more intrepid enter and relate 
their impressions to their less courageous 
companions on emerging from the hor- 
rible place. 

When there is no body there; when 
the marble slabs are unoccupied, the 
visitors are not pleased — hard as it may 
be to believe it. 

But there was a full house that morn- 
ing. All the slabs, with the exception 
of two, were occupied. 

The atmosphere was terrible. A damp 
chill penetrated one’s body, and from 
the panting crowd rose an infectious 
steam, heavily impregnated with the 
odor of the chloride of lime used as a 
disinfectant. 

And with the whispers of the bystand- 
ers, which were interspersed with sighs 
and exclamations, was mingled, as a 
continuous accompaniment, the murmur 
of the water trickling from the spigot at 
the head of each slab; a tiny stream 
that flowed forth only to fall in fine 
spray upon the marble. 

Through the small arched windows a 
gray light stole in on the exposed bodies, 
making each muscle stand out clearly, 
bringing into bold relief the ghastly tints 
of the lifeless flesh, and imparting a sin- 
ister aspect to the tattered clothing sus- 
pended about the room to aid in identifi- 
cation. This clothing, after a certain 
time, is sold — for nothing is wasted 

But Lecoq was too much occupied 
with his own thoughts to remark the 
horrors of the scene. 

He scarcely bestowed a glance on the 
three victims. He was seeking Father 
Absinthe and did not see him anywhere. 

Had Gevrol intentionally, or uninten- 
tionally failed to fulfil his promise, or 
had Father Absinthe forgotton his duty 
in his morning dram ? 

Powerless to decide what the cause of 
his comrade's absence might be, Lecoq 
addressed the head keeper : 

“It would seem that no one has yet 
recognized either of the unfortunate vic- 
tims of the triple murder at the Widow 
Chupin's.” 

“No one. And yet, from the opening, 
we have had an immense crowd If I 
were master here, on such days as this, 
I would ask an admission fee oi two sous, 
aud charge half-price for children. It 
would bring in a round sum — would 
more than cover the expenses.” 

The idea thus presented offered an in- 
ducement to conversation, but Lecoq did 
not seize it. 

“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “Did 
they not send one of the agents of the 
secret-service here this morning?” 


“Yes, there was one here.” 

“Has he gone away then? I do not see 
him anywhere.” 

The keeper, before making any re- 
sponse, glanced suspiciously at the eager 
'questioner, and at last, with some hesi- 
tancy of manner, he inquired: 

“Are you one of them?” 

This phrase came into circulation at 
the epoch when so many secret agents, 
whose business it was to excite revolt, 
flourished. Under the Restoration, this 
term was applied only to the police. 

“He is one of them,” or “he is not one 
of them.” The expression has survived 
the circumstances that gave it birth. 

“I am one of them,” replied Lecoq, ex- 
hibiting his badge in support of his as- 
sertion. 

“And your name?” 

“Is Lecoq.” 

The face of the keeper was suddenly 
illumined by a smile. 

“In that case,” said he, “I have a letter 
for you, written by your comrade who 
was obliged to go away. Here it is.” 

The detective at once broke the seal 
and read : 

“Monsieur Lecoq ” 

“Monsieur?” this simple formula of 
politeness brought a faint smile to the 
lips of the reader. Was it not, on the 
part of Father Absinthe, an evident re- 
cognition of his colleague's superiority? 

The young man saw in it an unques- 
tioning devotion which it would be his 
duty to repay with the kind protection of 
the master for his first disciple. 

He continued the perusal of his letter. 

“Monsieur Lecoq — I had been stand- 
ing on duty since the opening of the 
morgue, when about nine o’clock three 
young men entered, arm-in-arm. From 
their manner and appearance I judged 
them to be clerks in some store or ware- 
house. Suddenly I noticed that one ol 
them had turned as white as his shirt ; 
and calling the attention of his compan- 
ions to one of the unknown victims, he 
said: ‘Gustave!’ 

“His comrades put their hands over 
his lips, and one of them said: k What 
are you about, you fool, to mix yourself 
up with this affair ! Do you wish to get 
us into trouble?’ 

“Thereupon they went out, and I fol- 
lowed them. 

“But the person who had spoken, was 
so overcome that he could scarcely drag 
himself along ; and his companions were 
obliged to take him to a little restaurant. 

“I entered it myself, and it is there 
where I am writing this letter, while I 
watch them out of the corner of my eye. 
The head keeper will give you this note 
explaining my absence. You will un- 
derstand that ! am going to follow these 
men. A. B. S.” 

The handwriting of this letter was al- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


43 


most illegible ; there were faults of or- 
thography in each line ; but its meaning 
was clear and exact, and could not fail to 
awaken the most flattering hopes. 

Lecoq's face was radiant when he re- 
turned to the carriage, and, as he urged 
on his horse, the old coachman could not 
refrain from saying : 

“Things are going on to suit you.” 

A friendly “chut!” was the only re- 
sponse. It required all liis attention to 
classify this new information. 

When he descended from the carriage 
before the gate of the Palais de Justice, 
he experienced considerable difficulty in 
dismissing the old coachman, who insist- 
ed upon remaining at his orders. He 
succeeded at last, but even when he had 
reached the portico of the left entrance, 
the worthy driver, standing upon his car- 
riage-box, shouted : 

“At the house of M. Trigault — do not 
forget — Father Papillon — No. 998 — 1,000 
less 2 ” 

When he reached the third story of the 
left wing of the palace, and was about 
entering that long, narrow and sombre 
corrider known as the galerie de Vinstruc- 
tion , Lecoq addressed a door-keeper in- 
stalled behind a heavy oaken desk. 

“M. d'Escorval is undoubtedly in his 
office,” he remarked. 

The man shook his head. 

“M. d’Escorval,” he replied, “is not 
here this morning, and he will not be 
here for several weeks.” 

“Why so? What do you mean?” 

“Last evening as he was alighting 
from his carriage, at his own door, he 
had a most unfortunate fall, and broke 
his leg.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

One is rich — one has a carriage, horses 
and coachman — and when one passes, 
leaning back upon the cushions, one 
receives many an envious glance. 

But sometimes the coachman has taken 
a drop too much, and upsets the carriage ; 
perhaps the horses run away and break 
everything, or the until then fortunate 
owner, in a moment of abstraction, 
misses the step, and fractures his limb 
upon the sharp curb-stone. 

Such accidents are occurring every 
day; and the long list ought to make 
humble foot-passengers bless their lowly 
lot which preserves them from such 
perils. 

On learning the misfortune that had 
befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face 
wore such an expression of consternation 
that the door-keeper could not help 
laughing. 

“What is there so very extraordinary 
about it?” he demanded. 


| “I — oh ! nothing ” 

The detective did not speak the truth. 
The fact is, he ^ad just been struck by 
the strange coincidence of these two 
events, viz. : the murderer’s attempted 
suicide, and the fall of the judge. 

But he did not allow the vague present- 
iment that flitted through his mind to 
assume form. 

What connection could there be be- 
tween the two facts? 

Besides, he never allowed himself to be 
governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet 
enriched his formulary by the axiom 
which he afterwards professed : 

“Regard with distrust all circum- 
stances which seem to favor our secret 
desires.” 

It is certain that Lecoq was far from 
being rejoiced at M. d’Escorval’s accident, 
and that he would gladly have given a 
great deal if the misfortune could have 
been prevented. But he could not help 
saying to himself that he would, by this 
stroke of misfortune, be freed from all 
further disagreeable connection with a 
man whose superciliousness and disdain 
had, as it were, crushed him. 

This thought caused a sensation of 
relief, almost of light-heartedness. 

“In that case,” he remarked to the door- 
keeper, “I shall have nothing to do here 
this morning.” 

“You must bejoking. Does the world 
stop moving because one man is dis- 
abled? It is only an hour since the news 
came; but all the urgent business that 
M. d’Escorval had in charge has already 
been divided among the other judges.” 

“I came here about that terrible affair 
that occured night before last.” 

“Eh ! Why cfid you not say so? They 
are waiting for you, and a messenger 
has been sent to the prefecture for you 
already. M. Segmuller has charge of 
the case.” 

Deep lines of doubt and perplexity 
appeared on Lecoq’s forehead. He tried 
to remember the judge that bore this 
name, and wondered whether he should 
find himself en rapport with him. 

“Yes,” resumed the door-keeper, who 
seemed to be in a talkative mood, 
“M. Segmuller — you do not seem to know 
him. He is a worthy man, not so grim 
in manner as most of our gentlemen. 
It was of him that a prisoner said one 
day, after his examination was over: 
‘That devil there has pumped me so well 
that I shall certainly have my head 
chopped off; but, nevertheless, he is a 
good fellow !’ ” 

It was with a heart somewhat lightened 
by these favorable reports, that Lecoq 
went and tapped at the door that had 
been indicated, and which bore the num- 
ber 22. 

“Come in!” called a pleasant voice. 

Lecoq entered, and found himself face 


44 


M’ONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to face with a man about forty years of 
age, tall and rather corpulent, who said, 
at once : 

u Ah! you are Agent Lecoq. Very 
well— take a seat. I am busy just now 
with the case, but I will attend to yo u in 
five minutes.” 

Lecoq obeyed, and furtively began a 
study of the man whose co-laborer he 
was to become. 

His exterior corresponded perfectly 
with the description given by the door- 
keeper. Frankness and benevolence 
beamed on his plump face, which was 
lighted by very pleasant blue eyes. 

Still, the young detective fancied that 
it would not be safe to trust too implicit- 
ly to these benign appearances. 

And he was quite right. 

Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller 
was blessed with that candid physiogno- 
my that belongs to almost all the children 
of blonde Alsace — a deceitful mask, 
which not unfrequently conceals Gascon 
cunning, rendered still more dangerous 
by a union w T ith extreme caution. 

M. Segmuller’s mind was wonderfully 
penetrating and alert ; but his system — 
every judge has his own — was good- 
humor. While some, of his colleagues 
were as stiff and cutting in manner as the 
sword which the statute of Justice holds 
in her hand, he assumed a simplicity and 
a kindness of demeanor, which never 
affected his firmness of character as a 
magistrate, however. 

But his voice had such a paternal into- 
nation, he veiled the subtle meaning of 
his questions and the hearing of the an- 
swers with such an affectation of frank- 
ness, that the man whom he questioned 
forgot the necessity of protecting him- 
self, and revealed all. And while the 
culprit was congratulating himself upon 
getting the best, of the judge, the poor 
wretch was being turned inside out like 
a glove. 

Beside such a man, a grave and slender 
clerk would have excited distrust ; so he 
had chosen one who was a caricature of 
himself. His name was Goquet. He w r as 
short, very corpulent, beardless, and 
smiling. His broad face was expressive 
of silliness rather than good-liumor and 
he was not particularly bright. 

As M. Segmuller had said, he was 
studying the case which had so unex- 
pectedly fallen into his hands. 

All the articles which Lecoq had col- 
lected, from the flakes of wool to the diamond 
ear-ring , were spread out upon the mag- 
istrate’s desk. 

He read and re-read the report which 
had been written by Lecoq, and accord- 
ing to the different phases of the affair, 
he examined the objects before him, or 
consulted the plan of the ground. 

Not at the end of five minutes, but at 


the close of a good half hour, he threw 
himself back in his arm-chair. 

“■Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly, 
“Monsieur d’Escorval has informed me by 
a note on the margin of this file of pa- 
pers, that you are an intelligent man, 
and that we can trust you.” 

“My will, at least, is good.” 

“You speak too slightingly of your- 
self ; this is the first time that an agent 
has brought me a report as complete as 
yours. You are yoting; if you will per- 
severe, I think you will be able to accom- 
plish great things in your profession.” 

The young man bowed, pale with de- 
light, and stammered his thanks. 

“Your opinion in this matter coincides 
with mine,” continued M. Segmuller. 
“The government attorney informs me 
that M. d’Escorval shares this opinion. 
An enigma is before us ; and it ought to 
be solved.” 

“Oh! — we shall solve it, shall we not, 
monsieur?” exclaimed Lecoq 

He indeed felt capable of extraordinary 
things; he was ready to go through fire 
and water for the judge who had received 
him so kindly. Such intense enthusiasm 
sparkled in his eyes that M. Segmuller 
could not restrain a smile. 

“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he 
responded; “but we are far from the end. 
Now, what have you been doing since 
yesterday? Did M. d’Escorval give you 
Hny orders? Have you obtained any new 
information ?” 

“I think, monsieur, that I have not 
wasted any time.” 

And immediatelj\ with rare precision 
and with that happiness of expression 
which seldom fails the man who is thor- 
oughly en rapport with his subject, Le- 
coq related all that he had discovered 
since his departure from the Poivriere. 

He recounted the daring acts commit- 
ted by the man whom he believed an ac- 
complice, the points he had noted in the 
murderer’s conduct, and the latter’s un- 
successful attempt at self-destruction. 
He repeated the testimony given by the 
coachman, and by the concierge ; he read 
the letter he had received from Father 
Absinthe. 

In conclusion, he placed upon the 
judge’s desk some of the earth he had 
procured in such a strange manner, and 
deposited beside it about the same quan- 
tity of dust that he had brought from the 
floor of the cell in which the murderer 
had been confined at the Barriere d’ltalie. 

Then, when he had explained the 
reasons which had influenced him, and 
the conclusions that might be drawn 
from the discovery he had made : 

“Ah! you are right!” exclaimed M. 
Segmuller, “it may be that you have dis- 
covered a means to confound all the de- 
nials of the prisoner. It certainly is an 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


45 


evidence of surprising sagacity on your 
part.” 

It must have been, for Goquet, the 
clerk, nodded approvingly. 

“Wonderful !” he murmured. “I should 
never have thought of that.” 

While he was talking, M Segmuller 
had carefully placed all the articles of 
conviction in a large drawer, from which 
they would not emerge until the trial.” 

“Now,” said he, “I understand the case 
well enough to examine the Widow Chu- 
pin. We may gain some information 
from her. 

He laid his hand upon the hell ; Lecoq 
made an almost supplicating gesture. 

“I have one great favor to ask, mon- 
sieur,” 

“What is it? — speak.” 

4 1 should deem it a great favor if you 
would permit me to be present at this 
examination. It takes so little, some- 
times, to awaken a happy inspiration.” 

The law says that the accused shall 
first be privately examined by the judge, 
assisted by his clerk ; but it also allows 
the presence of agents of the police force. 

“Very well,” responded M. Segmuller, 
“remain.” 

He rang the bell; a messenger ap- 
peared. 

“Has the Widow Chupin been brought 
here, in compliance with my orders?” 

“Yes, monsieur; she is here in the 
gallery.” 

“Let her come in.” 

An instant after, the woman entered, 
bowing to the right and to the left. 

This was not her first appearance be- 
fore a magistrate, and she was not igno- 
rant of the respect that is due to jus- 
tice. 

So she had arrayed herself for her exam- 
ination with the utmost care. 

She had arranged her rebellious gray 
hair in smooth banbeaux, and she had 
done the best possible with the plain 
clothing she wore. She had even per- 
suaded the keeper of the prison to pur- 
chase for her, with the money she had 
upon her person at the time of her arrest, 
a black crepe bonnet and two white pock- 
et-handkerchiefs, which she intended to 
deluge with her tears at pathetic mo- 
ments. 

To second these artifices of the toilette, 
she had drawn upon her repertoire of 
grimaces for an innocent, sad, and yet 
resigned air, well fitted, in her opinion, 
at least, to win the sympathy and indul- 
gence of the magistrate upon whom her 
fate was to depend. 

Thus disguised, with downcast eyes 
and honeyed voice, she looked so. unlike 
the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, 
that her customers would scarcely have 
recognized her. 

An honest old bachelor would have 
been more than likely to offer her twenty 


francs a month to take charge of his 
house. 

But M. Segmuller had unmasked so 
many hypocrites that he was not deceived 
for a moment ; and the thought that en- 
tered his mind was the same that spark- 
led in the eyes of Lecoq 

“What an old comedienne /” 

. His penetration, it is true, may have 
been considerably aided by some notes 
he had just perused. These notes were 
simply an abstract of the woman's for- 
mer life, which had been furnished by 
the chief of police, at the request of the 
judge. 

M Segmuller, by a gesture, warned 
his smiling clerk to be ready to write. 

“Your name?” he demanded, brusque- 

“Aspassie Clapard, my good sir,” re- 
plied the old woman; “the Widow Chu- 
pin, at your service, sir.” 

She executed a profound courtesy, and 
added : 

“A lawful widow, you understand, 
sir ; I have my marriage papers safe in 
my chest at home ; and if you wish to 
send any one ” 

“Your age?’’ interrupted the judge. 

“Fifty-four ” 

“ Your profession?” 

‘‘Dealer in liquors, in Paris, near the 
Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers, a few steps 
from the fortifications.” 

These questions as to individuality are 
always the first which are addressed to 
a prisoner. 

They give both the judge and the ac- 
cused time to study each other, to try 
each other's strength, as it were, before 
engaging in a serious struggle; as two 
adversaries about to engage in mortal 
combat first try a few passes with foils. 

“Now,” resumed the judge, “ we will 
note your antecedents. Have you not 
already been found guilty of several 
offences?” 

The old sinner was too well versed in 
criminal procedure to be ignorant of 
those famous records, which render the 
denial of identity such a difficult matter 
in France. 

“I have been unfortunate, my good 
judge,” whined the old woman. 

“Yes, a number of times. First, you 
were arrested on the charge of being a 
receiver of stolen goods.” 

“But it was proved that I was inno- 
cent, that my character was whiter than 
snow. My poor, dear husband had been 
deceived by his comrades ; that was all.” 

“Possibly. But while your husband 
was submitting to his sentence, you were 
sentenced to imprisonment, first for one 
month, and afterwards for a term of 
three months, for stealing.” 

“I had enemies who did their best to 
ruin me.” 


46 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Again you were imprisoned for hav- 
ing led some young girls astray.” 

“They were good-for-nothing hussies, 
my dear sir, heartless and unprincipled 
creatures. I did them many favors, and 
then they went and related a batch of 
falsehoods to ruin me. I have always 
been too kind and considerate towards 
others.” 

The list of the woman’s offences was 
not exhausted, but M. Segmuller thought 
it useless to continue. 

“Such is your past,” he resumed, “At 
the present time your saloon is the resort 
of criminals and malefactors. Your son 
is serving out his fourth term of impris- 
onment ; and it has been clearly proved 
that you abetted him and assisted him in 
his evil deeds. Your daughter-in-law, by 
some miracle, has remained honest and 
industrious, so you have tormented and 
abused her to such an extent that the au- 
thorities have been obliged to interfere. 
When she left your house you tried to 
keep her child — in order to rear it like its 
father, undoubtedly.” 

“This,” thought the old woman, “is 
the moment to soften the judge’s heart. 
She drew her new handkerchief from her 
pocket, and endeavored, by rubbing her 
eyes energetically, to extract a tear. 
One might have drawn tears from a piece 
of parchment just as easily. 

“Oh, unhappy me!” she groaned; “to 
suspect, to think that I would harm my 
grandson, my poor little Toto ! I should 
be worse than the wild beasts, to wish to 
draw my own flesh and blood down to 
perdition.” 

But these lamentations did not seem to 
have much effect on the judge. She saw 
this, and, suddenly changing her mode 
of attack and her tone, she began her 
justification. * • 

She did not positively deny her past ; 
but she threw all the blame on destiny, 
which is not just, which favors some, but 
not usually the best, people, and which 
shows no mercy to others. 

Alas ! she was one of those who have 
had no chance in life, having always been 
innocent and persecuted. In this last 
affair, for example, how was she to 
blame? A triple murder had stained her 
saloon with blood; but the most respect- 
able establishments are not exempt from 
similar catastrophes. 

She had had time for reflection in her 
solitary confinement, she had searched 
the deepest recesses of her conscience, 
and she was still unable to discover what 
blame could justly be laid at her door. 

“I can tell you,” interrupted the judge. 
“You are accused of impeding the action 
of the law. 

u Mon Dieu ! is it possible?” 

“And of seeking to defeat justice. 
This is equivalent to complicity, Widow 
Chupin ; take care. When the police en- 


tered your cabin, after this crime had 
been committed, you refused to answer 
their questions.” 

“I told them all that I knew.” 

“Very well; you must repeat it to 
me.” 

M. Segmuller had reason to be content. 
He had conducted the examination in 
such a way that the Widow Chupin had 
been naturally led to undertake the rela- 
tion of the facts herself. 

This was an excellent point gained. 
Direct questions would, perhaps, have 
put this shrewd old woman, w r ho retained 
all her sang froid , upon her guard ; and it 
was necessary that she should not sus- 
pect what the judge knew, or what he 
was ignorant of, in relation to the affair. 

So, by leaving her to her own devices, 
he might be able to discover in its en- 
tirety the vision which she proposed to 
substitute for the truth. 

This version, neither the judge nor 
Lecoq doubted, had been concerted at 
the station-house of the Place d'ltalie 
between the murderer and the pretended 
drunkard, and afterwards transmitted to 
the widow by the bold accomplice. 

“Oh! the affair was very simple, my 
good sir,” began the honest tavern- 
keeper. “Sunday evening I was sitting 
alone by the fire in my establishment, 
when suddenly the door opened, and I 
saw three men and two ladies enter.” 

M. Segmuller and the detective ex- 
changed a rapid glance. The accom- 
plice, than, had seen Lecoq and his com- 
panions examining the foot-prints, and 
did not intend to deny the presence of the 
two women. 

“What time was this?” demanded the 
judge. 

“About eleven o’clock.” 

“Go on.” 

“As soon as they sat down, they or- 
dered a bowl of wine, a la Francaise. 
Without boasting, I may say that I 
have not an equal in preparing this 
beverage. Of course, I waited upon them, 
and afterwards, having a blouse to mend 
for my boy, I went up to my room, which 
is on the floor above.” 

“Leaving these people alone?” 

“Yes, my judge.” 

“That showed a great deal of confi- 
dence on your part.” 

The widow sadly shook her head. 
“When one has nothing,” she sighed, 
“one has no fear of thieves.” 

“Go on — go on.” 

“Well, I had been up there about half 
an hour, when I heard some one below 
call out : ‘Eh ! old woman !’ I went down, 
and found a large, heavily-bearded man, 
who had just come in. lie wished a glass 
of brandy. I waited upon him ; he was 
seated alone at a table.” 

“And than you went back up-stairs 
again?” interrupted the judge. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


47 


Did the Widow Chupin comprehend the 
concealed irony? Her physiognomy did 
not allow you to divine whether such was 
the case or not. 

“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied. 
“Only this time I had scarcely taken up 
my needle before I heard a terrible up- 
roar in the saloon. I hurried down- 
stairs to put a stop to it — ah w^ell ! yes ! 
The three first comers had fallen upon 
the new coiner, and they were beating 
him, my good sir, they were killing him. 
I screamed. Just then the man who had 
come in alone drew a pistol from his 
pocket; he fired and killed one of his 
assailants, who fell to the ground. I was 
so frightened that I crouched on the 
staircase and put my apron over my head 
that I might not see the blood run. An 
instant later Monsieur Gevrol arrived 
with his men, they forced open the door, 
and behold ” 

These wretched old women, who have 
trafficked in every sort of vice, and who 
have tasted every disgrace, sometimes at- 
tain a perfection of hypocrisy which de- 
ceives the most subtle penetration. 

A man who had not been warned be- 
forehand, would certainly have been im- 
pressed by the apparent candor of the 
Widow Chupin, so naturally was it put 
on, so perfect was the affectation of frank- 
ness, surprise, and fear which she dis- 
played. 

Unfortunately her eyes were against 
her — her small grey eyes, which were as 
restless as those of a caged animal, and 
which gleamed with cunning. 

Meanwhile, she was mentally rejoicing 
at the success of her narrative, being 
convinced that the judge placed implicit 
confidence in her revelation. 

In fact, not a single muscle of M. Seg- 
muller’s face had betrayed his impres- 
sions during the old woman’s recital — a 
recital which, by the way, had been ut- 
tered with prestidigitator-like volubility. 

When she paused, out of breath, he 
rose and without a word approached his 
clerk to look over the notes which Goquet 
had taken of this first part of the exam- 
ination. 

From the corner where he was quietly 
seated, Lecoq did not cease his watch 
over the prisoner. 

“She thinks,” he was saying to him- 
self, “that it is all over; and that her 
deposition is accepted without question.” 

If such were, indeed, the widow’s opin- 
ion, she was soon to be undeceived. 

M. Segmuller, after a few low-spoken 
words to the smiling Goquet, took a seat 
near the fire-place, convinced that the 
moment had come for pushing the exam- 
ination more strongly. 

“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you 
affirm that you did not remain for a single 
moment with the people who came to 
your saloon for refreshments?” 


“Not a moment.” 

“They entered and gave their order, 
you waited on them, and you left them at 
once?” 

“Yes, my good sir.” 

“It seems to me impossible that you 
should not have caught some words of 
their conversation. What were they talk- 
ing about?” 

“I am not in the habit of watching and 
playing the spy over my customers.” 

“Did you not hear something?” 

“Nothing.” 

The judge shrugged his shoulders with 
an air of commiseration. 

“In other words,” he remarked, “you 
refuse to inform the justice ” 

“Oh, my good sir!” 

“Allow me to finish. All these im- 
probable stories about leaving the room, 
and mending your son’s clothes in your 
chamber, you have invented, so that you 
could say to me : T have seen nothing ; I 
have heard nothing; I know nothing.’ 
If such is the system of defence you have 
adopted, I warn you that it will be im- 
possible for you to sustain it, and that it 
will not be admitted by any tribunal.” 

“It is not a system of defence; it is 
the truth.” 

M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a 
moment ; then, suddenly, he said : 

“Then you have nothing to tell me 
about this miserable assassin?” 

“But he is not an assassin, my good 
sir.” 

“What do you mean by such an asser- 
tion ?” 

“I mean that he has only killed others 
in protecting himself. They sought a 
quarrel with him ; he stood alone against 
three men ; he saw very plainly that he 
could expect no mercy from brigands 
who ” 

She suddenly checked herself, greatly 
embarrassed, as if reproaching herself 
for having gone too far; for having 
given too much liberty to her tongue. 

She might reasonably hope, it is true, 
that the judge had not observed her in- 
discretion. 

A brand had fallen from the fire down 
upon the hearth; he had taken the tongs, 
and his attention seemed to be engrossed 
in the task of artistically arranging his 
fire. 

“Who can tell me — who can assure 
me that it was not this man, on the con- 
trary, who first attacked the others?” 
he murmured, thoughtfully. 

“I can,” declared the widow, stoutly; 
“I can swear it.” 

M. Segmuller looked up, intense as- 
tonishment written upon every feature. 

“How can you know that?” he said, 
slowly. “How can you swear it? You 
were in your chamber when the quarrel 
began.” 

Silent and motionless in his chair, Le- 


i 


48 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


coq was inwardly jubilant. He thought 
that this was a most happy result, and 
that but a few questions more would be 
required to make the old woman contra- 
dict herself. He also assured himself 
that the proofs of her simplicity were in- 
creasing. Without a secret interest, the 
widow would never have undertaken the 
defence of the prisoner so imprudently. 

“But you have probably been led to 
this conclusion by your knowledge of the 
character of the murderer, with whom 
you are apparently well acquainted,” re- 
marked the judge. 

“I never laid eyes upon him until that 
evening.” 

“But he must have been in yonr estab- 
lishment before?” 

“Never in his life.” 

“Oh, oh ! Then, you can explain how 
it was that on entering the bar-room, 
while you were sitting in your room 
up-stairs, this unknown person — this 
stranger — should have cried : ‘Here, old 
woman!’ Did he merely guess that the 
establishment was kept" by a woman; 
and that this woman was no longer 
young?” 

“He did not say that.” 

“Reflect a moment; you, yourself, just 
told me so.” 

“I did not say that, my good sir.” 

“Yes you did, and I will prove it by 
reading your deposition to you. Goquet, 
read, if you please.” 

The smiling clerk at once found the 
passage, and in his clearest voice he read 
these words, taken down as they fell 
from the Widow Chupin's lips. 

“I had been up-stairs about half an 
hour, when I heard some one call from 
below : ‘Eh ! old woman ’ I came down,” 
etc., etc. 

“Are you convinced?” insisted M. Seg- 
muller. 

The assurance of the old offender was 
sensibly diminished by this set back. 
But instead of discussing the subject fur- 
ther, the judge glided over it as if he did 
not attach much importance to the inci- 
dent. 

“And the other men,” he resumed, 
“those who were killed; did you know 
them ?” 

“No, monsieur, no more than I knew 
Adam and Eve.” 

“And were you not surprised to see 
three persons entirely unknown to you, 
and accompanied by two ladies, enter 
your establishment ?” 

“Sometimes chance ” 

“Come ! you do not think what you are 
saying. It was not chance that brought 
these customers, in the middle of the 
night, to a saloon that has a reputation 
like yours — a saloon that is situated so 
far from any frequented route, and in the 
midst of a desolate waste.” 


“Iam not a sorceress ; what I say, that 
I think.” 

“Then -you did not know even the 
youngest of the victims, the man who 
was attired as a soldier, Gustave, in 
short?” 

“Not at all.” 

M. Segmuller noted the intonation of 
this response, and he added more slowly : 

“Certainly you must have heard allu- 
sion made to a friend of this Gustave, a 
man called Laeheneur?” 

On hearing this name, the proprietress 
of the Poivriere became visibly embar- 
rassed, and it was in an altered voice that 
she stammered : 

“Laeheneur ! Laeheneur ! I have never 
heard that name mentioned.” 

She denied it, but the effect that had 
been produced was evident, and Lecoq 
secretly vowed that he would find this 
Laeheneur, or perish in the attempt. 
Was there not among the articles of con- 
viction a letter from him, written, as he 
had reason to believe, in a cafe on the 
Boulevard Beaumarchais? 

With such a clue and with patience ! 

“Now,” continued M. Segmuller, “we 
will speak of the women who accom- 
panied these unfortunate men. What 
sort of women were they?” 

“Oh ! some women of no account what- 
ever ! 

••Were they richly dressed?” 

“Very miserably, on the contrary.” 

“Well, give me a description of them.” 

“They were — my good judge, I searce- 
saw them. They were large and power- 
fully built women, so much so, indeed, 
that at first, it being Shrove Sunday, I 
took them for men in disguise. They 
had hands like shoulders of mutton, 
gruff voices, and very black hair. They 
were as dark as mulattoes ” 

“Enough!” interrupted the judge; “I 
require no further proof of your dishon- 
esty. These women were small, and one 
of them was remarkably fair.” 

“I swear to you, my good sir ” 

“Do not declare it upon oath. I shall 
be forced to confront you with an honest 
man, who will tell you that you are a 
liar !” 

She did not reply, and there was a mo- 
ment's silence. M. Segmuller decided to 
deal a decisive blow. 

“Do you also affirm that you had 
nothing of a compromising character in 
the pocket of your apron?” he demand- 
ed., 

“Nothing— you may have it examined ; 
it was left in the house.” 

“Then you still persist?” resumed M. 
Segmuller “Believe me, you are wrong. 
Reflect — it depends solely upon your de- 
position whether you go ‘to the Court of 
Assizes as a witness, or as an accom- 
plice.” 

Although the widow seemed crushed 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


49 


by this unexpected blow, the judge said 
no more. Her deposition was read, she 
signed it and went away. 

M. Segmuller immediately seated him- 
self at his desk, tilled out a blank and 
handed it to his clerk, saying : 

“This, Goquet, is an order to be given 
to the keeper of the prison. Tell him to 
send the murderer here at once.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

To extort a confession from a man in- 
terested in preserving silence and per- 
suaded that no proofs can be produced 
against him, is certainly a difficult task ; 
but to demand the truth from a woma/i, 
under similar circumstances, is, as they 
say at the Palais de Justice, “attempting 
to make the devil confess.” 

After all, what had been gained by this 
examination, which had been conducted 
with the greatest possible care by a judge 
who knew how to manage his questions 
as well as a skilful general knows how 
to manoeuvre his troops and place them in 
the best possible positions. 

They had discovered unexceptionable 
proof of the Widow Chupin’s connivance 
with the murderer, and nothing more. 

“That old hag knows all,” murmured 
Lecoq. 

“Yes,” replied the judge, “it is almost 
certain that she knew the people who 
came to her house — the women, the vic- 
tims, the murderer — all of them, in fact; 
but it is certain that she knew this Gus- 
tave — I read it in her eyes. I am also 
convinced that she knows this Laeheneur 
— this man upon whom the dying soldier 
breathed vengeance — this mysterious per- 
sonage who evidently possesses the 
key to the enigma. This man must be 
found.” 

“Ah ! I will find him if I have to ques- 
tion each of the eleven hundred thousand 
men who walk the streets of Paris!” 

This was promising so much that the 
judge, in spite of his preoccupation, could 
not repress a smile. 

» “If this old woman w r ould only decide 
to make a clean breast of it at her next 
examination!” remarked Lecoq 

“Yes. But she will never speak.” 

The detective shook his head despond- 
ingly. Such was his own opinion. He 
did not delude himself with false hopes, 
and he had noticed between the Widow 
Chupin’s eyebrows, those furrows which 
betray the senseless obstinacy of the 
brute. 

“Women never confess,” resumed the 
judge; “and when they seem to resign 
themselves to making a revelation, it is 
only because they hope they have found 
a way to mislead the examiner. Evi- 
dence will crush the most obstinate man ; 

4 


he ceases to struggle ; he makes a con- 
fession. A woman scoffs at evidence. 
Show her the sun. and she w r ill close her 
eyes and reply : “It is night.’ Men plan 
and combine different systems of defence 
according to the social position in which 
they were born. Women have but one 
system, whatever their condition in life. 
They deny everything, and always ; and 
they weep. When I push the Chupin 
with disagreeable questions, on her next 
examination, rest assured she will turn 
her eyes into a fountain of tears.” 

In his impatience, he angrily stamped 
his foot He had many weapons in his 
arsenal; but he could find no weapon 
powerful enough to break a woman's 
dogged resistance. 

**if I only understood the motive that 
guides this old hag!” he continued. 
“But not a clue! Who can tell me what 
powerful interest commands her to be 
silent? Is it her own cause that she is 
defending? Is she an accomplice? Who 
will prove to us that she did not aid the 
murderer in planning an ambuscade?” 

“Yes,” responded Lecoq, slowly, “yes; 
this supposition very naturally presents 
itself to the mind But think a moment ; 
such a theory would prove that the prem- 
ises which you admitted, monsieur, a 
short time since were false. If the 
Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the 
murderer is not the person we have 
supposed him to be; he is simply the 
man whom he seems to be.” 

This argument was apparently con- 
vincing to M. Segmuller. 

“What is your opinion?'’ he exclaimed 

The young detective had formed his 
opinion. But how could he, an humble 
policeman, venture to express an opin- 
ion when a judge hesitated? 

He fully comprehended that his posi- 
tion necessitated extreme reserve on his 
part ; and it was in the most modest tone 
possible that he said : 

“Why might not the pretended drunk- 
ard have dazzled Mother Chupin' s eyes 
with promises of a brilliant reward? 
Why might he not have promised her 
money, a large amount?” 

He paused; the clerk had returned. 
Behind him was a soldier, who remained 
respectfully upon the threshold, his heels 
in a straight line, his right hand upon 
the visor of his shako, palm turned out- 
ward, the elbow on a level with his eye, 
in accordance with the ordinance. 

“Monsieur,” said the man, “the keeper 
of the prison sends me to inquire if he is 
to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary 
confinement; she complains bitterly on 
account of it.” 

M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. 

“Certainly,” he murmured, as if reply- 
ing to an objection made by his own 
conscience; “certainly, it is a terrible 
aggravation of one’s suffering; but if I 


60 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


allow this woman to associate with the 
other prisoners, she will certainly find 
some opportunity to communicate with 
parties outside. This must not be; the 
interests of justice and of truth must be 
considered first.” 

This last thought decided him. 

“It is decided that the prisoner must 
be kept in solitary confinement until 
further orders.” 

The soldier allowed his right hand to 
fall at his side, carried his right foot 
three inches back of his left heel, wheeled 
around and departed. 

When the door had closed on the sol- 
dier’s retreating form, the smiling clerk 
drew a large envelope from his pocket, 
and handed it to the judge. 

“Here is a communication from the 
keeper of the prison,” he remarked. 

The judge broke the seal, and read 
aloud : 

“I feel compelled to counsel the judge 
to surround himself with every precau- 
tion before proceeding to the examina- 
tion of the prisoner, May. 

“Since his unsuccessful attempt at 
suicide, this prisoner has been in a state 
of excitement that has obliged us to con- 
fine him in a strait-jacket. He did not 
close his eyes during the night, and the 
guards who were watching him expected 
every moment to see him become insane. 
Still, he has not uttered a word. 

“When food was offered him this morn- 
ing, he rejected it with horror, aiTd I 
should not be surprised if it were his in- 
tention to starve himself to death. 

“I have rarely seen a more dangerous 
malefactor. I think him capable of al- 
most any desperate act.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose 
smile had disappeared, “If l were in the, 
place of Monsieur le Juge, I would have 
the soldiers who brought him here come 
in with him.” 

“What! you — Goquet, you, an old 
clerk — make such a proposition ! Can it 
be that you are afraid V” 

“Afraid! No, certainly not; but ” 

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a 
tone that betrayed his confidence in his 
great strength; “Am I not here?” 

If M. Segmuller had seated himself at 
his desk, that article of furniture would 
have served as a rampart between the 
prisoner and himself. He usually oceu- 
ied that seat ; but after the fear evinced 
y his clerk, he would have blushed to 
avail himself of the slightest protection. 

He therefore took a seat by. the fire- 
place, as he had done a few moments be- 
fore while questioning the Chupin, and 
ordered his door-keeper to admit the pris- 
oner alone. He emphasized the word 
“alone.” 

A second after the door was flung open 
with terrible violence, and the murderer 


entered, or rather precipitated himself, 
into the room. 

Goquet turned pale behind his table, 
and Lecoq advanced a step, ready to 
make a spring forward. 

But when he reached the centre of the 
room, the prisoner paused and looked 
around him. 

“Where is the judge?” he inquired, in 
a hoarse voice. 

“I am the judge,” replied M. Segmul- 
ler. 

“No, the other.” 

“What other?” 

“The one who came to question me 
last evening.” ' 

“He has met with an accident. Yes- 
terday, after leaving you, he fell and 
broke his leg.” 

“Oh!” 

“And I am to take his place. 

But the prisoner was apparently deaf 
to the explanation. A stupor had sud- 
denly succeeded his frenzied excitement. 
His features, which had been so dis- 
torted with rage, relaxed. He became 
livid; he tottered, as if about to fall. 

“Compose yourself,” said the judge, in 
a benevolent tone; “if you are too weak 
to remain standing, take a seat.” 

Already with a powerful effort, the 
man had recovered his self-possession. A 
flame, instantly suppressed, flashed from 
his eyes. 

“Many thanks for your kindness,” he 
replied, “but this is nothing. I felt a 
slight sensation of dizziness, but it is 
over now. ’ 

“Is it long since you have eaten any- 
thing?” 

“1 have eaten nothing since this man” 
— he pointed to Lecoq — “brought me 
some bread and wine in the station-house 
over there.” 

“Do you not feel the need of some- 
thing?” 

“No — and yet — if you would be so good 
— I would like a glass of water.” 

“Will you not have some wine with 
it?” 

“I should prefer the pure water.” 

They brought him what he desired. 

He drained the first glass at a single 
draught; the second he drank more 
Slowly. 

One might have supposed that he was 
drinking In life itself, lie seemed to 
have been born again. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Eighteen out of every twenty crimi- 
nals who appear before the judge are 
armed with a more or less complete plan 
of defence, which they have conceived 
and perfected in their solitary cells. 

Innocent or guilty, they have adopted 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


61 


a role that commences the instant they 
cross the threshold of that dread room 
where the magistrate awaits them. 

The moment of the prisoner’s entrance 
is one in which the judge must bring all 
his powers of penetration into play. 

The attitude of the man as surely be- 
trays his plan of defence as an index 
table reveals the contents of a book. 

But in this case M. Segmuller did not 
think that appearances were deceitful. 
It was evident to him that the accused 
had not thought of feigning anything; 
and that the excited frenzy which marked 
his entrance was as real as his present 
stupor. 

At least, all the danger of which the 
keeper had spoken was apparently over. 
The judge, therefore, seated himself at 
his desk. He felt more at ease there, 
and so to speak, more strong. There his 
back was turned to the window, his face 
was half hidden in shadow ; and in case 
of need, he could, by bending over his 
desk, conceal his surprise, or any sign of 
discomfiture. 

The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in 
the full light, and not a movement of his 
features, not the fluttering of an eye-lid 
would escape the attention of the judge. 

He seemed to have entirely recovered 
from his indisposition ; and his features 
had assumed an expression of careless in- 
difference, or of complete resignation. 
“Do you feel better?” inquired M. Seg- 
muller. 

“I feel very well.” 

“I hope,” continued the judge, pater- 
nally, “that you will know how to mod- 
erate your transports after this. Yester- 
day you tried to destroy yourself. It 
would have been another great crime 
added to many others — a crime which 

With a brusque gesture, the prisoner 
interrupted him. 

“I have committed no crime,” said he, 
in a rough, but no longer threatening 
voice. “1 was attacked, and I defended 
myself. Any one has a right to do that. 
There were three enraged men upon me. 
It was a great misfortune, and I would 
give my right hand to repair it ; but my 
conscience does not reproach me — that 
much !” 

“That much,” was a contemptuous 
snap of his finger and thumb. 

“Yet I have been arrested and treated 
as an assassin,” he continued. “When I 
saw myself interred in that living tomb 
which you call a secret cell, I was afraid ; 
1 lost my senses. I said to myself ! ‘My 
boy, they have buried you alive ; and it 
is better to die, and that quickly, if you 
do not wish to suffer.’ Then I tried to 
strangle myself. My death would have 
brought sorrow to no one. I have 
neither wife nor child dependent upon 
me. To prevent me from destroying my- 


self after, I was bled ; they placed me in 
a straight-jacket, as if I were a madman. 
Mad ! I really believed I should become 
so. All night long the jailers were 
around me, like children who are amus- 
ing themselves by tormenting a chained 
animal. They watched me ; they talked 
about me ; they passed the candle to and 
fro before rny eyes.” 

All this was uttered with intense bitter- 
ness, but without any display of anger — 
forcibly, but with no attempt at oratori- 
cal display; uttered, in short, as one's 
deep emotions and convictions are always 
uttered. 

And the same thought entered the 
mind of the judge and of the detective at 
the same instant. 

man,” they thought, “ ?c 

clever 


“This man,” they thought, “is very 
; it will not be easy to get the ad- 
vantage of him.” 


Seg- 


After a moment’s reflection M. 
muller said : 

“This explains your first act of de- 
spair in the prison; but later, this morn- 
ing even, you refused the nourishment 
that was offered to you. 

The man’s lowering face brightened 
suddenly on hearing this remark; he 
gave a comical wink, and finally burst 
into a hearty laugh — a gay, frank, sono- 


rous laugh. 


“That,” said he, “is quite another 
thing. Certainly, I refused all they of- 
fered me, and now I will tell you why. 
I had my hands confined in the straight- 
jacket, and the jailer tried to feed me as 
a nurse feeds a baby with broth. Ah ! 
no, I thank you. I closed my lips with 
all my strength. Then he tried to force 
open my mouth and push the spoon in, 
as he would open the mouth of a sick dog 
and push his medicine down his throat. 
Devil take his impertinence ! I tried to 
bite him ; that is the truth, and if I had 
succeeded in getting his finger between 
my teeth, it would have staid there. And 
only because I have done this, they raise 
their hands to heaven in holy horror, and 
pointing at me say : ‘Here is a terrible 
man ! a horrible rascal !’ ” 

He seemed to enjoy the recollection of 
the scene exceedingly, for he burst into 
another hearty laugh, to the great 
amazement of Lecoq, and to the great 
scandal of good Goquet, the clerk. 

M. Segmuller also found it very diffi- 
cult to conceal his intense surprise. 

“You are too reasonable, I hope,” said 
he, at last, “to attach any blame to these 
mien, who, in confining you, were mere- 
ly obeying the orders of their superior 
officers, and who were only trying to 


save you from 
sions.” 

“Hum !” 


your own violent pas- 


responded the prisoner, be- 
I do, however, 

and if I had one of them in a corner 

But I shall get over it. If I know my- 


coming serious at once. 


52 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


self, I have no more spite in my compo- 
sition than a chicken.” 

“It depends only upon yourself how 
you are to he treated ; be calm and they 
will never place you in a strait-jacket. 
But j r ou must be quiet and well-behaved. 

The murderer sadly shook his head. 

“I shall be very prudent hereafter,” 
said he; “but it is terribly hard to stay 
in prison when one has nothing to do. 
If I had comrades, we could laugh and 
chat, and the time would slip by ; but to 
remain alone, entirely alone, in that cold 
cell, where one hears not even a sound — 
it is horrible. It is so damp there that 
the water trickles down the walls, and 
one might swear that the moisture was 
real tears, men’s tears, issuing from the 
stone.” 

The judge bent over the desk to make 
a note. The word “comrades” had at- 
tracted his attention, and he proposed 
to make the prisoner explain it later. 

“If you are innocent,” he remarked, 
“you will soon be released ; but it is nec- 
essary to establish your innocence.” 

“What must I do to establish it?” 

“Tell the truth, the whole truth : an- 
swer honestly and unreservedly the ques- 
tions I shall put to you.” 

“As for that, you may depend upon 
me.” 

He lifted his hand, as if to call upon 
God and man to witness his sincerity. 
M. Segmuller ordered him to drop it, 
adding : 

“Parties who are accused do not take 
the oath.” 

“Indeed!” said the man, with an as- 
tonished air; “that is strange!” 

Although the judge had apparently paid 
but little attention to the prisoner, he had 
not failed to notice his every movement. 
He had desired to reassure him, to make 
him feel at ease, to quiet his suspicions 
as much as possible; and he believed 
that this result had been attained. 

“Now, said he, “you will give me your 
attention; and do not forget that your 
liberty depends upon your frankness. 
What is your name?” 

“May.” 

“What is your Christian name?” 

“I have none.” 

“That is impossible.” 

A movement of the prisoner betrayed 
an impatience which was quickly sup- 
pressed. 

“This,” he replied, “is the third 
time since yesterday, I have received 
that answer. What I told you is the 
truth, however. If I were a liar, noth- 
ing would be easier than for me to tell 
you that my name was Peter, James, or 
John. Rut lying is not my forte. Real- 
ly, I have no Christian name. If it were 
a question of surnames, it would be quite 
another thing. I have had plenty of 
them.” 


“What were they?” 

“Let me see — to commence with, when 
I was with Father Fougasse, I was called 
Affiloir, because, you see ” 

“Who was this Father Fougasse?” 

“The king of men for wild beasts, 
monsieur. Ah ! he could boast of a me- 
nagerie that was a menagerie. Tigers, 
lions, paroquets of every color, serpents 
as large as your thigh — he had every- 
thing. But unfortunately ” 

Was the man jesting, or was he in ear- 
nest? It was so hard to decide, that M. 
Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in 
doubt. Goquet, while writing his report, 
laughed. 

“Enough,” interrupted the judge, 
“How old are you?” 

“Forty-four or forty-five years of age.” 

“Where were you born?” 

“In Brittany, probably.” 

In this reply, M. Segmuller thought 
he discovered an inclination to levity, 
which must be repressed. 

“I warn you,” said he, severely, “that 
if you go on in this way your liberty 
will be greatly compromised. Each of 
your responses is a breach of propriety.” 

The most sincere distress, mingled 
with anxiety, was visible upon the coun- 
tenance of the murderer. 

“Ah! I meant no offence, sir,” he 
sighed. “You questioned me and I re- 
plied. You will see that I have spoken 
the truth, if you will allow me to tell 
you the history of the whole alfair.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“When the prisoner speaks, the prose- 
cution is instructed,” is an old proverb at 
the Palais de Justice. 

It does, indeed, seem almost impossible 
for a culprit, closely watched by the 
judge, to speak more than a few words 
without betraying his intentions or his 
thoughts; without, in short, revealing 
more or less of the secret he is endeavor- 
ing to conceal. 

Even the most simple-minded of crimi- 
nals understand this, and those who are 
most shrewd, are generally most re- 
served. 

Confining themselves entirely to the 
few facts upon which they have founded 
their defence, they leave this safe ground 
only when they are absolutely compelled 
to do so, and then only with the utmost 
caution. 

When questioned, they reply of course, 
but always briefly; and they are very 
sparing of details. 

In this case, however, the accused was 
prodigal of words. He did not seem to 
apprehend that there was danger lest he 
should cut his own throat. He did not 
hesitate like those who are fearful of 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


53 


misplacing a word of the romance they 
are substituting for the truth. 

Under other circumstances this fact 
would have been a strong argument in his 
favor. 

“You may tell your own story, then,’' 
was M. Segmuller’s response to the in- 
direct request of the prisoner. 

The murderer did not attempt to con- 
ceal the joy which had been awakened in 
his heart by being allowed to plead his 
own cause, in his own way. 

The sparkling of his eyes, the dilation 
of his nostrils revealed his satisfaction. 

He seated himself, threw his head back, 
passed his tongue over his lips as if to 
moisten them, and said : 

“Am I to understand that you wish to 
hear my history?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you must know that one day 
about forty-five years ago, Father Tring- 
lot, the manager of a traveling company 
of athletes and acrobats, was going from 
Guingamp to Sainte-Briene. He was 
making the journey in two large car- 
riages with his wife, his equipments, and 
the members of his company. Very 
well. But soon after leaving quite a 
large city named Chatelaudren, he per- 
ceived something white lying by the 
roadside, near tne edge of a ditch. ‘I 
must go and see what that is,” he said to 
his wife. He stopped the horses, de- 
scended from the carriage, went to the 
ditch, picked up the object and uttered a 
cry of surprise. You will ask me ‘■what 
this man has found?’ Ah! monDieu! A 
mere trifle. He had found your very 
humble servant; then aged about six 
months.” 

With these last words, he made a low 
bow to his auditors. 

“Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me 
to his wife,” he continued. “She was a 
kind-hearted woman. She took me, ex- 
amined me, fed me, and said : ‘He is a 
strong, healthy child; we will keep him, 
since his mother has been so- wicked as to 
abandon him. I will teach him ; and in 
five or six years he will be an honor to 
us.’ Then they tried to decide upon a 
name for me. It was in the early part of 
the month of May, so they concluded to 
call me May ; and May I have been from 
that day to this.” 

He paused, and looked from one to an- 
other of his listeners, as if seeking some 
sign of approval. 

None being forthcoming, he went on 
with his story : 

“Father Tringlot was an uneducated 
man, and entirely ignorant of the law. 
He did not inform the authorities that he 
had found a child, and for this reason, 
although I was living, I did not exist , 
for to exist it is necessary to have one's 
name and birth inscribed ujion the may- 
or's register. 


“When I became older, I rather con- 
gratulated myself on this omission on 
Father Tringlot’s part. 

“I said to myself: ‘May, my boy, you 
have no place on any government regis- 
ter, consequently there is no fear that 
you will ever be drawn as a soldier.’ 

“I had no desire to be a soldier; no 
fancy for being made food for bullets 
and cannon-balls. 

“Afterwards, when the age for con- 
scription had passed, a lawyer told me 
that I would make a great deal of trouble 
for myself if I sought a place on the civil 
register at that late day ; so I decided to 
exist surreptitiously. 

“And this is why I have no Christian 
name, and why I cannot say exactly 
where I was born.” 

If truth has any particular accent of 
its own, as moralists have asserted, the 
murderer had found that accent. 

Voice, gesture, glance, expression, all 
were in accord ; not a word of his long 
story had rung false. 

“Now,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, 
“what are your means of subsistence?” 

By the discomfited mien of the mur- 
derer one would have supposed that he 
had expected to see his prison doors fly 
open at the conclusion of his last re- 
marks. 

“I have a profession,” he replied, plain- 
tively. The one taught me by Mother 
Tringlot. I subsist by its practice ; and 
I have lived in France and in other coun- 
tries.” 

The judge thought he had found a flaw 
in the armor. 

“Do you say you have lived in foreign 
countries?” he inquired. 

“Yes; during the seventeen years that 
I formed a part of M. Simpson’s com- 
pany, I traveled most of the time in Eng- 
land and in Germany.” 

“Then you are a gymnast and an ath- 
lete. How is it that your hands are so 
white and so soft 9 ” 

Far from being embarassed, the pris- 
oner lifted his hands and examined them 
with evident complacency. 

“It is true that they are pretty,” said 
he; “that is because I take good care of 
them and do not use them.” 

“Do they pay you, then, for doing 
nothing?” 

“Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty 
consists in speaking to the public, in 
turning a compliment, and in making 
things pass off pleasantly, as the saying 
is; and, without boasting, I flatter my- 
self that I have a certain knack ” 

M. Segmuller stroked his chin, accord- 
ing to his habit when a prisoner commit- 
ted some grave blunder. 

“In that case,” said he, “will you give 
me an exhibition of your talent 9 ’’ 

“Ah, ha,” laughed the man, evidently 


54 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


supposing this a jest on the part of the 
magistrate. “Ah, ha !” 

“Obey, if you please,” insisted the 
judge. 

The murderer made no objection. His 
mobile face immediately assumed an en- 
tirely different expression; a singular 
mixture of impudence, conceit and irony 
played upon his features. 

He caught up a ruler that was lying 
upon the desk, and in a shrill falsetto 
voice, and with many flourishes, he 
began : 

“•Silence, music! And you, big drum, 
hold your peace ! This, ladies alnd gen- 
tlemen, is the hour, the moment, and the 
instant for the grand and only perform- 
ance of these great artists; unequaled in 
the world in their feats upon the trapeze 
and on the tight-rope, and in other exer- 
cises of grace, suppleness and strength.” 

“That is sufficient,” interrupted the 
judge. “You can speak thus in France; 
but what do you say in Germany?” 

“Of course, I use the language of that 
country.” 

“Let us see !” commanded M. Segmul- 
ler, whose mother tongue was German. 

The prisoner dropped his mocking 
manner, assumed an air of comical im- 
portance, and, without the slightest hesi- 
tation he said, in very emphatic tones : 

u Mit Bewilligung der hochloeblichen 
Obrigkeit wird heute vor hiesiger ehrenwer- 
then Burgerschaft zum erstenmal anfge 
fuhrt — Genovesa, oder del ”* 

“Enough,” said the judge, harshly. 

He rose to conceal his chagrin, per- 
haps ; and added : 

“We will send for an interpreter who 
can tell us whether you speak English as 
fluently.” 

On hearing these words, Lecoq mod- 
estly stepped forward. 

“I speak English,” said he 

“Veiy well. You hear, prisoner?” 

But the man was already transformed. 
Brittanic gravity and apathy were writ- 
ten upon his features ; his gestures were 
stiff and constrained, and it was in the 
most ponderous tones that he said : 

“Ladies and gentlemen: Long life to 
our queen, and to the honorable mayor 
of this town J No country, England ex- 
cepted — our glorious England! — could 
produce such a marvellous thing, such a 
paragon ” 

For a minute or two longer he con- 
tinued in the same strain. 

M. Segmuller was leaning upon his 
desk, his face bowed upon his hands 
Lecoq could not conceal his astonish- 
ment 

Only Goquet, the smiling clerk, found 
the scene amusing. 


* “With the permission of the local authorities, 
there will now be presented before the honorable 
Citizens, for the first time— Genevieve, or the ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

Tiie keeper of the depot, a functionary 
who had gained the reputation of being 
an oracle by twenty years of experience 
in prisons and with prisoners — a man 
whom it was difficult to deceive — had 
written to the judge : 

“Surround yourself with every pre- 
caution before examining the prisoner, 
May.” 

And instead of the dangerous malefac- 
tor, the very announcement of whose 
coming had made the clerk turn pale, the 
prisoner proved to be a practical, harm- 
less, and jovial philosopher, vain of his 
eloquence, a man whose existence de- 
pended upon his ability to turn a compli- 
ment ; in short, a somewhat erratic gen- 
ius. 

This was a strange mistake. But this 
did not cause M. Segmuller to abandon 
the theory advanced by Lecoq, he had 
become more than ever convinced of its 
truth. 

If he remained silent, with his elbows 
propped upon his desk, and his hands 
clasped over his eyes, it was only that he 
might gain time for reflection. 

The manner and attitude of the pris- 
oner was remarkable. 

When his English “compliment” was 
ended, he remained standing in the cen- 
tre of the room, his countenance wearing 
an expression half pleased, half anxious. 
But he was as much at ease as if he were 
upon the stage where, if one could be- 
lieve his story, he had passed the greater 
part of his life. 

By the combined efforts of all his intel- 
lectual powers and his penetration’ the 
judge attempted to seize upon something, 
even if it were only some indication of 
weakness on this face, which in its mobil- 
ity was more enigmatical than the bronze 
face of the sphinx. 

Thus far M- Segmuller had been worst- 
ed in the encounter. 

It is true, however, that he had made 
no direct attack, nor had he made use of 
any of the weapons which Lecoq had 
forged for his use. 

But he was none the less annoyed at 
his defeat. It was easy to discern this 
by the brusque manner in which he lifted 
his head after a few moments of silence. 

“I see that you speak three European 
languages correctly,” said he. “It is a 
rare talent.” 

The prisoner bowed, and smiled com- 
placently. 

“But that does not establish your iden- 
tity,” continued the judge. “Have you 
an> acquaintances in Fans ? Can you in- 
dicate any respectable person who will 
vouch for the truth of this story?” 

“Ah! monsieur, it is seventeen years 
since I left France.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


55 


“It is unfortunate, but the prosecution 
would not be content with such reasons. 
It would be too easy to escape the con- 
sequences of one's former life. Tell me 
of your last patron, M. Simpson. Who 
was this man?” 

“M. Simpson is a rich man,” replied 
the prisoner, rather coldly, “worth more 
than two hundred thousand francs, and 
honest. In Germany he traveled with a 
show of marionettes, in England with a 
collection of phenomena, to suit the taste 
of the country.” 

•‘Very well! This millionaire could 
testify in your favor ; it would be easy to 
find him, I suppose.” 

‘“Certainly,” May responded, emphati- 
cally. “M. Simpson would willingly do 
me this favor. It would be easy enough 
to find him, only it would require con- 
siderable time.” 

“Why?” 

“Beeause at the present moment he is 
— he must be en route to America. It 
was on account of this journey that I left 
his company — I detest the ocean.” 

The intense anxiety that had stopped 
the beatings of Lecoq’s heart was dissi- 
pated. He breathed again. 

“Ah J” said the judge, very slowly. 
“When I say that he is en route , ’’re- 
sumed the prisoner, “I may be mistaken. 
He may not have started yet. But he 
had arranged all his business matters for 
departure before we separated. 

“Upon what ship was he to sail?” 

“He did not tell me.” 

“Where was he when you left him?” 
“At Leipsic.” 

“When was this?” 

“Last Wednesday.” 

M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders 
disdainfully. 

“Do you say you were in Leipsic on 
Wednesday? Plow long have you been 
in Paris?” 

“Since Sunday afternoon, at four 
o'clock.” 

“It will be necessary to prove that.” 
By the contracted brow of the mur- 
derer, one would naturally have supposed 
that he was making a strenuous effort to 
remember something. For about a minute 
he seemed to be seeking something. He 
cast questioning glances first at the 
ceiling then at the floor, scratching his 
head and tapping his foot in evident 
perplexity. 

“How can I prove it — how?” he mur- 
mured. 

The judge did not appear disposed to 
wait. 

“I will make a suggestion to aid you,” 
said he. “The people at the inn where 
you boarded while in Leipsic must 
remember you.” 

“We did not stop at an inn.” 

“Where did you eat and sleep, then?” 
“In M. Simpson’s large traveling- 


carriage; it had been sold, but he was 
not to give it up until he reached the 
port from which he was to embark.” 

“What port was that?” 

“I do not know.” 

Less accustomed to concealing his 
impressions than the judge, Lecoq could 
not help rubbing his hands, so great was 
his satisfaction. He saw that the pris- 
oner was convicted of falsehood — “driven 
to the wall,” as he expressed it. 

“So you have only your own affirma- 
tion to offer in support of this story?” 
inquired the judge. 

“Wait a moment,” said the accused, 
extending his arm as if to clutch a still 
vague inspiration — “wait a moment. 
When I arrived in Paris I had a trunk ; 
it contains my linen, which is all marked 
with the first letter of my name. There 
are also some coats, several pairs of 
pantaloons, and two costumes for wear 
when I appear in public.” 

“Go on.” 

“On my arrival in Paris I took this 
trunk to a hotel quite near the railway 
station.” 

He stopped short, evidently em- 
barrassed. 

“What is the name of this hotel?” 
demanded the judge. 

“Alas! that is exactly what I am 
trying to recollect. I have forgotten it. 
But I have not forgotten the house. I 
can see it yet; and, if some one would 
take me to the neighborhood, I should 
certainly recognize it. The people at the 
hotel would know me ; besides, my trunk 
would prove the truth of my story.” 

Lecoq mentally resolved to make a 
tour of investigation through the hotels 
which surrounded the northern depot. 

“Very well,” remarked the judge. 
“Perhaps we will do as you request. 
Now, there are two questions which I 
desire to ask. If you arrived in Paris 
at four o’clock in the afternoon, how did 
it happen that by midnight of the same 
day you had found the Poivriere, a haunt 
of notorious characters, situated in a 
lonely spot, and which it would be im- 
possible to find at night if one was not 
familiar with the locality ? In the sec- 
ond place, how does it happen, if you 
possess such clothing as you describe, 
that you are so poorly dressed?” 

The man smiled at these questions. 

“That is what I will explain to you,” 
he responded. 

“When one travels third-class, one is 
sure to ruin one’s clothing ; that is why, 
on leaving Leipsic I put on the worst 
clothing I had. When I arrived here, 
and felt the pavements of Paris beneath 
my feet, I went wild with delight. I 
became a fool. I had some money in 
my pocket — it was Shrove Sunday — my 
only thought was to make a night of it. 

I did not think of changing my clothes. 


5G 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Having formerly found much amuse- 
ment near the Barriere dTtalie, I has- 
tened there, and entered a wine-shop. 
While I was eating a morsel, two men 
came in and began talking about spend- 
ing the night at a ball at the Rainbow. 
I asked them to take me with them ; they 
consented. I paid their bill, and we 
started. But soon after our arrival there 
these young men left me and joined the 
dancers. It was not long before I be- 
gan to weary of playing the part of 
looker-on. Vexed and disappointed, I 
left the inn, and being foolish enough 
to dislike to ask my way, I wandered on 
and lost my way while traversing a large 
tract of unoccupied land. I was about 
to retrace my steps ,when I saw a light in 
the distance. I walked straight towards 
it, and arrived at that cursed hovel.” 

“What happened then?” 

“Oh! I went in; called for some one. 
A woman came. I asked for a glass of 
brandy; she brought it. I sat down and 
lighted a cigar. Then I looked about 
me. The interior was horrible enough 
to frighten one. Three men and two 
women were drinking and chatting in 
low tones at another table. My face did 
not seem to suit them. One of them 
rose, came to me and said: ‘You are a 
policeman ; you have come here to play 
the spy on us ; that is very plain.’ I an- 
swered that I was not. He replied that 
I was. I again declared that I was not. 
In short, he swore that he was sure of 
it, and that I had on a false beard. 
Thereupon he caught hold of my beard 
and pulled it. This made me mad. I 
jumped up, and with a blow of my fist 
felled him to the ground. Misery ! In 
.an instant all the others were upon me ! 
I had my revolver — you know the rest.” 

“And the two women, while this was 
going on, what were they doing?” 

“Ah! I was too busy to pay any atten- 
tion to them. They disappeared !” 

“But you saw them when you entered 
the saloon — what were they like?” 

“They were, upon my word ! two big. 
ugly creatures, as tall as grenadiers, and 
as dark as moles !” 

Between plausible falsehood and im- 
probable truth, justice, human justice, 
and therefore liable to error, is compelled 
to decide as best it can. 

For the past hour M. Segmuller had 
not been free from niental disquietude. 
But his doubts all vanished when he 
heard the prisoner declare that the two 
women were tall and dark. 

In his opinion this audacious falsehood 
proved that there was a perfect under- 
standing between the murderer and the 
Widow Chupin. 

If the man had said: “The women 
were fair,” M. Segmuller would not have 
known what to believe. 

Certainly, his satisfaction was great ; 1 


but his face did not betray it. It was 
of the utmost importance that the pris- 
oner should believe that he had succeeded 
in deceiving the judge. 

“You must understand how necessary 
it is to find these women,” said the judge 
kindly. “If their testimony corresponds 
with your allegations, your innocence 
will be proved conclusively.” 

“Yes, I understand that; but how' can 
I put my hand upon them?” 

“The police can aid you — these agents 
are always at the service of prisoners who 
desire to make use of them in establish- 
ing their innocence. Did you make any 
observations which might aid in the dis- 
covery of these women ?” 

Lecoq. whose eyes never w r andered 
from the prisoner’s face, fancied that he 
saw the least shadow of a smile on the 
man’s lips. 

“I remarked nothing,” he said cold- 
ly- 

M. Segmuller had opened the drawer 
of his desk a moment before. He now 
took from it the ear-ring which had been 
found at the scene of the tragedy, and, 
handing it abruptly to the prisoner, he 
asked : 

“So you did not notice this in the ear 
of one of the women?” 

The imperturbable coolness of the 
accused did not forsake him. 

He took the ornament, examined it at- 
tentively, held it up to the light, admired 
its brilliant fires, and said : 

“It is a very handsome stone; but I 
did not notice it.” 

“This stone,” remarked the judge, “is 
a diamond.” 

“Ah !” 

“Yes; and worth several thousand 
francs.” 

“So much as that !” 

This exclamation was in accord 'with 
the spirit of his role ; but the prisoner 
had failed to assume a suitable show of 
simplicity, or rather, he had exaggera- 
ted it. ' 

A nomad like himself, who had, as he 
claimed, visited all the capitals of Eu- 
rope, would not have been so astonished 
on hearing the value of a diamond. 

Still, M. Segmuller did not seem to 
notice the discrepancy. 

“Another thing,” said he. “When you 
threw down your pistol, crying : -Come 
and take me,’ what did you intend to 
do?” 

“I intended to make my escape.” 

“In what way?” 

''''Darnel — by the door, sir. — by ■*’ 

“Yes, by the back door,” said the 
judge, with freezing irony. “It remains 
for you to explain how you — you who 
had just entered that hovel for the first 
time — could have known of this door.” 

For the first time, the eye of the pris- 
oner grew troubled; his assurance dis- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


57 


appeared. But it was only for an in- 
stant ; then he laughed, but it was a false 
laugh, that poorly concealed his anxiety. 

“What nonsense!” he responded. “I 
had just seen the two women go out by 
that door.” 

“Pardon me, you have just declared 
that you did not see the departure of 
these women ; that you were too busy to 
watch their movements.” 

“Did I say that?” 

“Word for word; the passage shall be 
read to you. Goquet, read.” 

The clerk read the passage referred to, 
but the man undertook to show that they 
had misunderstood his remark. “He had 
not said — at least, he did not intend to 
say — they had quite misunderstood him 


Lecoq was jubilant. 

“Ah! my good fellow,” he thought, 
“you contradict yourself — you are in 
deep water — you are lost.” 

This reflection was the more just as the 
situation of the prisoner was like that of 
a man who, without knowing how to 
swim, had advanced into the sea until the 
water was above his chin. Thus far he 
had preserved his equilibrium very well ; 
but now he totters — soon he loses his 
footing — he sinks ! 

“Enough — enough !” said the judge. 
“Now, if you started out merely with the 
intention of amusing yourself, how did 
it happen that you took your pistol with 
you?” 

“I had it with me while I was travel- 
ing, and I did not think to leave it at the 
hotel any more than I thought to change 
my clothes.” 

“Where did you purchase it?” 

“It was given me by M. Simpson as a 
souvenir.” 

“Confess that this M. Simpson is a 
very convenient personage,” said the 
judge coldly. “Still, go on with your 
story. Two chambers only of this mur- 
derous weapon have been discharged, and 
three men were killed. You have not 
told me the end of the affair.” 

“Alas !” exclaimed the man, in sad- 
dened tones, “what is the use? Two of 
my assailants had fallen; the struggle 
now was an equal one. I seized the re- 
maining man, the soldier, about the 
bodj'', and threw him down. He fell 
against a corner of the table, and did not 
rise again.” 

M. Segmuller had unfolded upon his 
desk the plan of the saloon drawn by 
Lecoq. 

“Come here,” he said, addressing the 
prisoner, “and indicate upon the paper 
the precise spot occupied by you and by 
your adversaries.” 

May obeyed, and with an assurance of 
manner a little surprising in a man in his 
apparent position, he explained the 
drama. 


‘•I entered,” said he, “by this door, 
marked C ; I seated myself at the table, 
H, which is to the left of the entrance ; 
the others occupied this table, which is 
between the fire-place, F, and the win- 
dow, B. 

When he had finished : 

“I must admit,” said the judge, “that 
your assertions are in perfect accord with 
the statements of the physicians, who 
say that one of the shots must have been 
fired at a distance of about a yard, and 
the other, at a distance of about two 
yards.” 

The accused had triumphed; but he 
only shrugged his shoulders and mur- 
mured : 

“That proved that the physicians knew 
their business.” 

Lecoq was delighted ; he felt that, had 
he been a judge, he would have conduct- 
ed this examination in precisely the same 
way. 

He blessed Heaven that had given him 
M. Segmuller, in place of M. d’Escorval. 

“This admitted,” resumed the judge, 
“there remains to be explained a sen- 
tence uttered by you when this agent, 
whom you see here, arrested you.” 

“What sentence?” 

“You said: Tt is the Prussians who 
are coming; I am lost!’ What did you 
mean by that?” 

A fleeting crimson tinged the cheek of 
the prisoner. It was evident that he had 
anticipated the other questions, and that 
he had been prepared for them ; but that 
this one was unexpected. 

“It is very strange,” said he, “with ill- 
disguised embarrassment, “that I should 
have said such a thing !” 

“Five persons heard you,” insisted the 
judge. 

Evidently he was endeavoring to gain 
time ; he was hunting for an explanation. 

“After all,” replied the man, “the 
thing is very possible. It was a phrase 
that was often repeated by an old soldier 
of Napoleon’s body-guard, who, after 
the battle of Waterloo, entered the ser- 
vice of M. Simpson.” 

This explanation, though rather slow 
in coming, was none the less ingenious. 
At last M. Segmuller appeared to be per- 
fectly satisfied. 

“That is very plausible,” said he ; “but 
there is one circumstance that passes my 
comprehension. Were you freed from 
your assailants before the entrance of the 
policemen? Answer me, yes or no.” 

• “Yes.” 

“Then, why, instead of making your 
escape by the door, whose existence you 
had divined, did you remain upon the 
threshold of the communicating door, 
with a table before you to serve as a bar- 
ricade. your pistol directed toward tho 
police, holding them at bay?” 


53 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


The man hung his head, and they were 
obliged to wait for his response. 

U I was a fool,” he stammered, at last. 
“1 did not know whether these men were 
agents of the police force or friends of 
the men I had killed.” 

“Your self-interest would have im- 
pelled you to flee from one as well as 
from the other.” 

The murderer was silent. 

“Ah, well!” resumed M. Segmuller, 
“the prosecution is of the opinion that 
you designedly and voluntarily exposed 
yourself to the danger of arrest in order 
to protect the retreat of the two women 
who were in the saloon.” 

“Why should I have risked my own 
safety for two hussies whom I did not 
even know?” 

“Pardon me. The prosecution are 
strongly inclined to believe that you 
know these two women very well.” 

“I should like to see any one prove 
this !” 

He laughed sneeringly, but the laugh 
was frozen upon his lips by the tone of 
assurance in which the judge uttered 
these words : 

“I will prove this to you!” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

These difficult and delicate questions 
of personal identity are the bane of mag- 
istrates. 

Railroads, photography, and telegraph- 
ic communication have multiplied the 
means of investigation in vain. Every 
day it happens that malefactors succeed 
in deceiving the judge in regard to their 
true personality, and thus escape the con- 
sequences of their former crimes. 

This is so frequently the case that a 
witty attorney-general once laughingly 
remarked — and, perhaps, he was only half 
in jest : 

“This uncertainty in regard to identity 
will cease only on the day when the 
law prescribes that a number shall be 
branded upon the shoulder of eveiy 
child whose birth is reported to the 
mayor.” 

M. Segmuller certainly wished that a 
number had been branded upon the enig- 
matical prisoner before him. 

And yet he did not by any means de- 
spair, and his confidence, exaggerated 
though it might be, was not feigned. 

He thought this circumstance in con- 
nection with the two women was the 
weak spot in the prisoner’s plan of de- 
fence — the point upon which he must 
concentrate all his efforts. 

When he felt that his threat had had 
time to produce its full effect, he contin-l 
ued • 

“So, prisoner, you assert that you were I 


acquainted with none of the persons you 
met in the saloon?” 

“I swear it.” 

“Have you never had occasion to meet 
one Lacheneur, an individual whose name 
is connected with this unfortuate affair?” 

“I heard this name for the first time 
when the dying soldier uttered it, adding 
that this Lacheneur was an old come- 
dian.” 

He heaved a deep sigh, and continued : 

“Poor soldier! 1 had just dealt him 
his death blow ; and yet his last words 
testified to my innocence.” 

This sentimental outburst produced no 
impression whatever upon the magis- 
trate. 

“Consequently,” resumed the judge, 
“you are willing to accept the deposition 
of this soldier?” 

The man hesitated, as if conscious that 
he had fallen into a snare, and that he 
would be obliged to weigh each response 
carefully. 

“I accept it,” said he, at last. “Of 
course, I accept it.” 

“Very well. This soldier, you must 
recollect, wished to revenge himself 
upon Lacheneur, who, by promising him 
money, had inveigled him into a con- 
spiracy. A conspiracy against whom? 
Evidently against you; and yet you 
pretend that you had only arrived in 
Paris that evening, and that the merest 
chance had alone brought you to the 
Poivriere. Can you reconcile such con- 
flicting statements?” 

The prisoner had the hardihood to 
shrug his shoulders, disdainfully. 

“I see the matter in an entirely 
different light,” said he. “These people 
were plotting mischief against — 1 do not 
know whom — and it was because I was in 
their way that they sought a quarrel 
with me, without any cause whatever.” 

The judge’s sword-thrust had been 
skillfully made, but it had been as skill- 
fully parried; so skillfully, indeed, that 
the smiling clerk could not conceal an 
approving grimace. Besides, on prin- 
ciple, he always took the part of the 
prisoner — in a very mild way, under- 
stand. 

“Let us consider the circumstances 
that followed your arrest,” resumed 
M. Segmuller. “Why did you refuse to 
answer all questions-?” 

A gleam of real or assumed resentment 
shone in the eyes of the prisoner. 

“This examination,” he growled, “will 
be quite sufficient to make a culprit out 
of an innocent man !” 

“I advise you, in your own interest, to 
deport yourself properly. Those who 
arrested you observed that }mu were 
conversant with all the formalities, and 
with the rules of the prison.” 

“Ah ! sir, have I not told you that I 
have been arrested and put hi prison 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


59 


several times — always on account of my 
papers. I told you the truth, and con- 
sequently you should not taunt me.” 

He had dropped his mask of careless 
gayety, and had assumed a surly, dis- 
contented tone. 

But his troubles were not ended ; the 
battle had but just begun. M. Segmuller 
laid a tiny linen bag upon ids desk 

“Do you recognize this?” he asked. 

“Perfectly! It is the package that 
was placed in the safe by the keeper of 
the prison.” 

The judge opened the bag, and poured 
the dust that it contained out upon a 
sheet of paper 

“You are aware, prisoner,” said he, 
“that this dust is from the mud that 
adhered to your feet. The agent of 
police who collected it went to the sta- 
tion-house where you had spent the 
preceding night, and he has discovered 
between this dust and the earth which 
forms the floor of the station-house a 
perfect uniformity ” 

The man listened with wide-open 
mouth. 

“Hence,” continued the judge, “it was 
certainly at the station-house, and 
designedly , that you soiled your feet in 
the mud. What was your object?’’ 

“I wished ” 

“Let me finish. Resolved to guard the 
secret of your identity, and to assume 
the individuality of a man of the lower 
orders of society — of a mountebank, if 
you please— you reflected that the deli- 
cacy of your appearance would betray 
you. You foresaw the impression that 
would be produced when, upon removing 
the coarse, ill-fitting boots that you wore, 
the officers saw shapely, nicely-cared for 
feet like yours ; for they are as well kept 
as your hands. What did you do, there- 
fore? YY>u emptied upon the ground the 
water that was in the pitcher in your 
cell, and then dabbled your feet in the 
mud that had been formed.” 

During these remarks the face of the 
prisoner had expressed, by turns, anx- 
iety, the most comical astonishment, 
irony, and at last a frank gayety. 

At the conclusion, he seemed unable to 
restrain the burst of merriment which 
prevented him from making any reply. 

“This is what one gets by searching 
around for twelve or fourteen hours,” 
he said, as soon as he could speak, and 
addressing not the judge, but Lecoq. 
“Ah! Mister Agent, it is well to be 
sharp, but not so sharp as that. The 
truth is, that when I was taken to the 
station-house, forty-eight hours — thirty- 
six of them spent on the railroad cars — 
had elapsed since I had taken off my 
shoes. My feet were red, swollen, and 
burned like fire. What did I do? I 
poured some water on them. As for 
your other suspicions, if I have a soft 


and white skin, it is only because I take 
care of myself. Besides, as is usual with 
most men in my profession, I never wear 
anything but slippers on my feet This 
is so true, that on leaving Leipsic, I owned 
only one pair of boots, and that was an 
old cast-off pair given me by M. Simp- 
son.” 

Lecoq struck himself upon the breast • 
“Fool, imbecile, idiot, that I am !” he 
thought. “He was’ waiting to be ques- 
tioned in regard to this circumstance. 
When this man, who is wonderfully 
shrewd, saw me take this dust, he di- 
vined my intentions ; he has been seeking 
for an explanation, and he has found it 
— and it is a plausible one — any jury 
would believe it.” 

M. Segmuller was saying the same 
thing to himself. But he was not so sur- 
prised nor so overcome by the cleverness 
of the prisoner. 

“Let us continue,” said he. “Do y*ou 
still persist in your affirmations, prison- 
er?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well; then I shall be forced to 
tell you that you are saying what is un- 
true.” 

The prisoner’s lips trembled very visi- 
bly, and he faltered : 

“May my first mouthful of bread 
strangle me, if I have uttered a single 
falsehood !” 

“A single falsehood! — wait.” 

The judge took from his desk-drawer 
the molds of the foot-prints, which Le- 
coq had made, and showing them to the 
murderer, he said : 

“You have told me that these women 
were as tall as grenadiers ; now see the 
footprints made by these immense wo- 
men. “They were as ‘dark as moles,’ 
you said ; a witness will tell you that one 
of them was a small, very delicate 
blonde, with an exceedingly sweet voice.” 

He sought the prisoner’s eyes, found 
them, and added slowly : 

“And this witness is the coachman 
whose carriage was hired in the Rue de 
Chevaleret by the two fugitives.” 

This sentence fell upon the prisoner 
like a thunderbolt ; he grew pale, tottered 
and leaned against the wall to keep him- 
self from falling. 

“Ah! you have told me the truth!” 
scornfully continued the pitiless judge. 
“Who, then, is this man who was wait- 
ing for you while you were in the Poiv- 
riere? Who is this accomplice who, after 
your arrest, dared to enter the Widow 
Chupin's hut to regain something com- 
promising in its nature — a letter, un- 
doubtedly — which he knew he would find 
in the pocket of the Widow Chupin’s 
apron? Who is this devoted and coura- 
geous friend who feigned drunkenness so 
effectually that even the police were de- 
ceived, and placed him in confinement 


60 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


with you? Dare you deny that you have 
not arranged your system of defence in 
concert with him? Can you affirm that 
he did not give the Widow Chupin coun- 
sel as to the course she must pursue?” 

But already, thanks to an almost super- 
human effort, the man had mastered his 
agitation. 

“All this,” said he, in a harsh voice, 
u is a mere invention of the police !” 

However faithfully one may describe 
an examination of this sort, it gives the 
reader no more idea of the scene than 
cold ashes give the effect of a glowing 
fire. 

One can note down the slightest word ; 
but one can never portray the repressed 
animation, the impassioned movements, 
the studied reticence, the intonation, the 
glances full of haired and suspicion which 
encounter each other — in short, the ter- 
rible anguish of a mortal struggle. 

When the prisoner reeled beneath the 
power of his accusation, the judge trem- 
bled with joy. 

u He weakens,” he thought, “he yields 
-—he is mine !” 

But all hope of immediate success van- 
ished when he saw this redoubtable ad- 
versary struggle against his momentary 
weakness, and arm himself for the fight 
with a renewed and still more vigorous 
energy. 

The judge comprehended that it would 
require more than one assault to over- 
come such a nature. 

So, in a voice rendered still more harsh 
by disappointment, he resumed : 

“Evidently you are determined to deny 
evidence itself.” 

The murderer had turned to bronze 
again. He must have bitterly regretted 
his weakness, for a fiendish audacity glit- 
tered in his eyes. 

“What evidence!” he demanded, 
frowning. “This romance invented by 
the police is very plausible, I do not 
deny it; but it seems to me that the 
truth is quite as probable. You tell me 
of a coachman, who was employed by 
two small, fair-haired women— who can 
prove that those women are the same 
who fled from this accursed hovel?” 

“The police officer followed their tracks 
upon the snow.” 

‘•At night, across fields cut every now 
and then by ditches, and up a long street, 
while a fine rain was falling and a thaw 
was beginning ! That is very probable !” 

He extended his arm towards Lecoq, 
and in a tone of crushing scorn, he 
added : 

“A man must have great confidence in 
himself, or a wild longing for advance- 
ment, to ask that a man's head should be 
cut off on such evidences this!” 

While the smiling clerk made his pen 
fly across the paper, he said to himself : 


“The arrow entered the bull’s eye this 
time !” 

The reproach did indeed seem just; 
and it cut Lecoq to the quick. He was 
so incensed, that forgetful of the place 
in which he was, he sprang up. furious. 

“This circumstance would be of slight 
importance,” said he, vehemently, “if it 
were not one of a long chain ” 

“Silence !” interrupted the judge. _ 

Tlieu turning to the prisoner he said : 

“The court does not use proofs and 
testimony collected by the police until it 
has examined and weighed them.” 

“No matter,” murmured the man. “I 
would like to see this coachman. ” 

“Have no fears; he shall repeat his de- 
position in your presence.” 

“Very well. I am satisfied then. I 
will ask him how he can distinguish 
people's faces when it is as dark as ” 

He checked himself, enlightened appa- 
rently by a sudden inspiration. 

“How stupid I am !” he exclaimed. “I 
lose my temper about these people while 
you know all the while who they are. 
For you know, do you not, since the 
coachman must of course have taken 
them to their homes.” 

M. Segmuller saw that the man under- 
stood him. He saw, too, that he was 
endeavoring to increase the shadow of 
doubt and uncertainty that overhung the 
very point upon which the prosecution 
was so anxious to obtain information. 

An incomparable comedian, the man 
had uttered these words with an accent 
of the most sincere candor. But the 
irony was evident, and if he sneered, it 
was because he felt that he had nothing 
to fear from this quarter. 

“If you are consistent,” remarked the 
judge, “you will also deny the existence 
of an accomplice, of a— comrade.” 

“Of what use would it be to deny it, 
since you believe nothing that I say? 
You only a moment ago insinuated that 
my former employer was an imaginary 
personage ; what shall I say of this pre- 
tended accomplice? Ah ! the agents who 
invented him have made him indeed a 
faithful friend. Not content with escap- 
ing them once, he comes to place Ipmself 
in their clutches for a second time. 
These gentlemen pretend that he con- 
ferred first with me, and afterwards with 
the Widow Chupin. How did that hap- 
pen? Perhaps, after they took him from 
the cell in which I was confined, they 
shut him up with the old woman.” 

Goquet the clerk wrote and admired. 

“Here,” he thought, “is a man of 
brain, who understands his case, and 
who will have no need of the eloquence 
of a lawyer in pleading his cause before 
a jury.” 

“And after all,” continued the prison- 
er, “what are the proofs against me? 
The name Lacheneur, faltered by a dying 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


61 


man, some foot-prints upon the melting 
snow, the declaration of a coachman, a 
vague suspicion on the subject of a 
drunken man. Are these all? They do 
not amount to much ” 

“•Enough!” interrupted M Segmuller. 
“Your assurance is great now, but your 
embarrassment a moment since was even 
greater. What was the cause of it?” 

“The cause !” exclaimed the prisoner, 
in a sort of rage; “the cause! Can you 
not see, monsieur, that you are torturing 
me frightfully, pitilessly? I am an inno- 
cent man, and you are trying to deprive 
me of my life. You have been turning 
me this way and that for so many hours, 
that I begin to feel as if I were standing 
on the guillotine ; and at each word that 1 
utter, I ask myself if this is the one that 
will make the axe fall upon my head. 
My anxiety and dismay surprise you, 
do they, when I have felt the cold knife 
raze my throat at least twenty times ? 
would not desire my worst enemy to 
be subjected to torture like this.” 

He was, indeed, suffering terribly. 
His hair was saturated with perspiration, 
and great drops of sweat stood out upon 
his cheeks and rolled from his pallid 
brow down upon his beard. 

“I am not j r our enemy,” said the judge, 
more gently. “A judge is neither the 
friend nor the enemy of a prisoner ; he 
is simply the friend of truth and of the 
law I am not seeking an innocent man 
or a culprit ; I merely wish to arrive at 
the truth. I must know who you are — 
and I do know ” 

“Ah! — if the assertion costs me my 
life — I am May ” 

“No.” 

“Who am I, then? Some great man 
in disguise? Ah! I would that I were! 
In that case, I should have satisfactory 
papers. I would show them to you, and 
you would set me free, for you know 
very well, my good sir, that I am as in- 
nocent as yourself.” 

The judge had left his desk, and seated 
himself by the fire-place, only a couple 
of feet from the prisoner 

“Do not insist,” said he. 

Then suddenly changing both manner 
and tone, he added with the urbanity 
that a man of the world displays when 
addressing an equal : 

“Do me the honor, monsieur, to be- 
lieve me gifted with sufficient perspicuity 
to recognize, under the difficult role that 
you play to such perfection, a very supe- 
rior gentleman — a man endowed with re- 
markable talent.” 

Lecoq saw that this sudden change of 
manner had unmanned the prisoner. 

‘ He tried to laugh, but the laugh died 
in his throat as mournful as a sob, and 
tears glittered in his eyes. 

“I will not torture you any longer, 
monsieur,” continued the judge. “Upon 


this ground of subtle reasoning I confess 
that you have conquered me. When I 
return to the charge I shall have proofs 
enough in my possession to crush you. 

He reflected for a moment, then slow- 
ly. and lingering over each word, he 
added . 

“Only do not expect from me then the 
consideration I have shown you to-day. 
Justice is human, monsieur; that is, she 
is indulgent to certain crimes. She has 
fathomed the depths of the abyss into 
which blind passion may hurl even an 
honest man. To-day, any assistance 
that will not conflict with my duty I 
freely offer to you. Speak, monsieur. 
Shall I send away this officer of police 9 
Do you wish me to send my clerk out of 
the room upon some errand?” 

He said no more. He waited to see 
the effect of this last, this supreme effort. 

The murderer darted upon him one of 
those glances that penetrate to the depths 
of one's inmost soul. His lips moved ; 
one might have supposed that he was 
aboqt to speak. But no , he crossed his 
arms upon his breast and murmured : 

“You are very frank, monsieur. Un- 
fortunately for me, I am only a poor 
devil, as I have told you, May, artist — 
to speak to the public and turn a compli- 
ment.” 

“I am forced to yield to your decision,” 
said the judge, sadly “The clerk will 
now read the report of your examination 
— listen.” 

Goquet read the deposition. 

The prisoner listened without making 
any remark , but when the reading was 
concluded he refused to sign the docu- 
ment, fearing, he said, “some hidden 
treachery.” 

A moment after, the soldiers who had 
brought him there, led him away 


CHAPTER XXII 

When the prisoner had departed, M. 
Segmuller sank back in his arm-chair, 
weary, exhausted, and in that state of 
nervous prostration which so often fol- 
lows protracted, but fruitless efforts. 

He had scarcely strength to bathe his 
burning forehead and his glittering eyes 
in cool, refreshing water This fright- 
ful scene had lasted for seven consecutive 
hours, at least. 

The smiling clerk, who all the while 
had kept his place at his desk, busily 
writing, rose, glad of an opportunity to 
stretch his limbs and snap his fingers, 
cramped by holding the pen. 

Still, he was not in the least bored. 
These dramas which had been unrolled 
in his presence for so many years, had 
never ceased to afford him a half-theat- 
rical interest, increased by the uncer- 


62 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


tainty in which the denouement was 
shrouded, and by the consciousness of 
some slight participation in the affair. 

“What a knave!” he exclaimed, after 
vainly waiting some expression of opin- 
ion from the judge or from the detective ; 
“what a rascal !” 

Ordinarily, M. Segmuller accorded 
some degree of confidence to the long 
experience of his clerk. He sometimes 
even went so far as to consult him, doubt- 
less somewhat in the same style that 
Moliere consulted his servant. 

But this time he did not accept his 
opinion. 

“No,” said he in a thoughtful tone, 
“that man is not a knave. When I spoke 
to him kindly he was really touched ; he 
wept , he hesitated. I would have sworn 
that he was about to confide everything 
to me.” 

“Ah !” he is a remarkable man — a man 
of wonderful power !” said Lecoq. 

The detective was sincere in his praise. 
Although the prisoner had disappointed 
his plans, and had even insulted him, he! 
could not help admiring his adversary’s 
shrewdness and courage. 

He had prepared himself to struggle 
with this man to the death — he hoped to 
conquer him. Nevertheless, in his secret 
soul Lecoq experienced that sympathy 
which a “foeman worthy of one’s steel” 
always inspires. 

“What coolness, what courage!” con- 
tinued Lecoq “Ah! there is no deny- 
ing it, his system of defence — of absolute 
denial — is a chef (V oeuvre. It is perfect. 
And how admirably he sustained the 
different role of buffoon ! Sometimes I 
could scarcely restrain my admiration. 
What are all these famous comedians 
beside him? The greatest actors need 
the aid of stage scenery to support the 
illusion. This man almost convinced me 
even against my reason.” 

“Do you know what your very just 
criticism proves?” inquired the judge. 

“I am listening, monsieur.” 

“All, well! i have arrived at this 
conclusion — either this man is really May, 
artist — for the paying of compliments, as 
he says — cr he belongs to the highest 
rank of society ; not to the middle classes. 
It is only in the lowest ranks or in the 
highest, that you encounter such grim 
energy as he has displayed, such scorn 
of life, as well as such remarkable pres- 
ence of mind and resolution. A vulgar 
bourgeois attracted to the Poivriere by 
some shameful passion would have con- 
fessed it long ago.” 

“But, monsieur, this man is not the 
buffoon, May,” replied the young 
detective. 

“No, certainly not,” responded M. 
Segmuller; “we must, therefore, decide 
upon some plan of action.” 


He smiled kindly, and added, in a 
friendly voice : 

“It was unnecessary to tell you that, 
Monsieur Lecoq. Quite unnecessary, 
since to you belongs the honor of having 
detected this fraud. As for me, I con- 
fess, that if I had not been warned in 
advance, I should at this moment be the 
dupe of this clever artist.” 

The young man bowed; a blush of 
modesty tinged his cheeks, but his 
pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes. 

What a difference between this friendly 
and benevolent judge and that other, so 
taciturn and so haughty. 

This man, at least, understood, appre- 
ciated, and encouraged him ; and it was 
with a common theory and an equal 
ardor that they were about to devote 
themselves to a search for the truth. 

These thoughts flitted through Lecoq's 
mind; then he reflected that his satis- 
faction was a trifle premature, and that 
success was still extremely doubtful. 

This rather chilling thought restored 
his coolness. 

“Monsieur, an idea has just occurred to 
me,” he said, calmly. 

“Let me hear it.” 

“The Widow Chupin, as you undoubt- 
edly recollect, alluded to her son, a 
certain Polyte ” 

“Yes.” 

“Why not question him? He must 
know all the habitues of the Poivriere, 
and would perhaps give us valuable in- 
formation regardingGustave, Lacheneur, 
and the murderer himself. As he is not 
in solitary confinement, he has probably 
heard of his mother’s arrest ; but it seems 
to me impossible that he should suspect 
our present perplexity. 

“Ah ! you are a hundred times right !” 
exclaimed the judge. “Why did I not 
think of that myself? To-morrow morn- 
ing I will question this man, whose sit- 
uation renders him less likely to have 
been tampered with than these parties. 
I will also question his wife.” 

He turned to his clerk and added : 

“Quick, Goquet, prepare a summons in 
the name of the wife of Hippolyte Chu- 
pin, and address an order to the keeper 
of the depot for her husband !” 

But night was coming on. It was al- 
ready so dark that one could not see to 
write , and the clerk rang the bell and 
asked for a light. Just as the messenger 
who had brought in the lamps was leav- 
ing the room, some one rapped. The 
door opened, and the keeper of the prison 
entered with his liat in his hand. 

During the past twenty-four hours this 
worthy officer had been greatly exercised 
in mind on account of the mysterious 
prisoner whom he had placed in secret 
cell No. 3, and he came to the judge for 
advice. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


C3 


M I come to ask if I am to retain the 
prisoner, May, in solitary confinement?” 

“Yes.” 

“I fear his attacks of frenzy, still I 
dislike to confine him in the strait-jacket 
again.” 

•‘Leave him free in his cell,” replied 
M. Segmuller, “and tell the keepers to 
treat him kindly, but yet to exercise a 
constant surveillance over him.” 

By the provisions of Article 613, al- 
though accused parties are eonfidt d to 
the authority of the government, the 
judge is allowed, previous to the trial, to 
adopt such measures concerning them as 
he may deem necessary for the interests 
of the prosecution. 

The keeper bowed ; then he added : 

“You have doubtless succeeded in es- 
tablishing the identity of this prisoner?” 

“Unfortunately, I have not.” 

The keeper shook his head with a 
knowing air. 

“In that case, my conjectures were 
correct,” said he. “It seems to me more 
than sufficiently demonstrated that this 
man is a malefactor of the worst sort — 
an old offender certainly, and one who 
has the strongest interest in concealing 
his identity. You will find that you have 
to deal with a man who has been sen- 
tenced to the galleys for life, and who 
has managed to make his escape from 
Cayenne.” 

“Perhaps you are mistaken.” 

“Hum! I shall be greatly surprised if 
I discover that I am. I must admit that 
my opinion in this matter corresponds 
exactly with that of M. Gevrol, the most 
experienced and the most skilful of our 
inspectors. I agree with him in thinking 
that young detectives are often over-zeai- 
ous, and run after phantoms originated 
in their own brains.” 

Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about 
to make an angry response, when M. 
Segmuller, with a gesture, imposed si- 
lence. 

It was the judge who, with a smile, re- 
plied to the keeper. 

“Upon my word, my dear friend,” he 
said, “the more I study this affair, the 
more convinced I am of the correctness 
of the theory advanced by the ‘too-zeal- 
ous detective.' But, after all, I am not 
infallible, and I shall depend upon your 
counsel and assistance.” 

“Oh ! I have means of verifying my as- 
sertion,” interrupted the keeper; “and I 
hope before the end of the next twenty- 
four hours that our man will have been 
identified, either by the police or by some 
one of his fellow-prisoners.” 

With these words he took his leave, 
and Lecoq sprang up, furious. 

“You see thai tin Gevrol alreadj’ - 
speaks ill of me; he is jealous.” 

“Ah, well ! what doe.-, that matter to 
you? If you succeed, you will have your 


revenge. If you are mistaken — I am mis- 
taken, too.” 

And then, as it was already late, M. 
Segmuller confided to Lecoq's keeping 
the articles which the latter had accum- 
ulated in support of his theory. He also 
placed in his hands the diamond ear-ring, 
whose owner must be discovered, then 
the letter signed Lacheneur, which had 
been found in the pocket of the dead sol- 
dier. 

He gave him several commissions, and, 
after requesting him to make his appear- 
ance promptly on the morrow, he dis- 
missed him with these words : 

“Now go ; and good luck attend you I” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Long, narrow, low of ceiling, and 
pierced by many small, numbered doors, 
like the corridor of a hotel, its sole fur- 
niture an immense oaken desk, blackened 
by age — such is the galerie d' instruction 
in the Palais de Justice. 

Even in the day-time, when it is 
thronged with prisoners, witnesses, and 
guards, it is a sad and gloomy place. 

But it is sinister of aspect at night, 
when deserted, and only dimly lighted 
by the smoking lamp of the door-keeper, 
who is waiting for the departure of some 
judge whom business has detained later 
than usual. 

Although Lecoq was not sensitive to 
such influences, he made haste to reach 
the staircase and escape the echo of his 
own steps, which resounded drearily in 
the silence and darkness that pervaded 
the corridor. 

On the floor below a window was 
standing open, and the young man leaned 
out to ascertain the state of the weather. 

The temperature was much milder ; the 
snow had disappeared entirely, and the 
pavements were almost- dry. A slight 
haze, illumined by the red glare of the 
street lamps, hung like a purple mantle 
over the city. 

The streets below were gay* and ani- 
mated ; carriages were rolling rapidly to 
and.fro, ahd the pavements were too nar- 
row for the bustling crowd, which, now 
that the labors of the day were ended, 
was hastening in pursuit of its pleasures. 

This spectacle drew a sigh from the 
young detective. 

“And it is in this great city, in the 
midst of this world of people that I must 
discover the traces of an unknown per- 
son ! Is it possible to do this?” 

But this feeling of discouragement did 
not endure long. 

“Yes, it is possible, cried an inward 
voice, “Besides, it must be done; your 
future depends upon it. What one wills, 
one can do.” 


64 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


i 


Ten seconds later he was in the street, 
more than ever inflamed with hope and 
courage. 

To act as the servants of boundless 
desires, man has, unfortunately, only or- 
gans of limited power. The young man 
had not advanced twenty steps before he 
realized the fact that his physical powers 
would not obey the command of his will. 
His limbs trembled; his head whirled. 
Nature asserted her rights ; for two days 
and nights Lecoq had taken scarcely a 
moment’s rest, and he had eaten nothing 
that day. 

# “Am I going to be ill?” he thought, 
sinking down upon a bench. 

And he groaned inwardly, on recapitu- 
lating all that he wished to do that eve- 
ning. 

Must he not (to mention only the most 
important) ascertain the results of Fath- 
er Absinthe’s search after ‘the man who 
had recognized one of the victims in the 
morgue ; must he not verify in the hotels 
which surround the northern depot the 
assertions made by the prisoner; and 
last, but not least, must he not procure 
the address of Polyte Chupin's wife, in 
order to serve the summons upon her? 

Under the power of urgent necessity, 
he succeeded in triumphing over his 
weakness, and he rose, murmuring : 

U I will go to the prefecture, and to the 
morgue ; then I will see.” 

But he did not find Father Absinthe at 
the prefecture, and no one could give any 
tidings of him. The good man had not 
made his appearance there at all during 
the day. 

Nor could any one indicate, even 
vaguely, the abode of the Widow Chu- 
pin’s daughter-in-law. 

But he met a number of his colleagues, 
who laughed and jeered at him unmerci- 
fully. 

“Ah! you are a shrewd one!” — all 

whom lie met, said to him ‘-it seems 

that you have just made a wonderful dis- 
covery! They talk of decorating you 
with the cross.” 

Gevrol’s influence betrayed itself ev- 
erywhere. The angry inspector had 
taken pains to inform each new-comer 
that this poor Lecoq, crazed by ambition, 
persisted in declaring that a low, vulgar 
fugitive from justice was some great per- 
sonage. 

But these jeers had but little effect 
upon the young man. “He laughs best, 
who laughs last,” he muttered. 

If he was restless and anxious as he 
walked up the Quai des Orfevres, it was 
only because he could not explain the 
prolonged absence of Father Absinthe, 
and because he wondered if Gevrol, in 
his mad jealousy, would not attempt, in 
an underhand way, to entangle all the 
threads of this business still more. 

At the morgue, he met with no better 


success. After ringing three or four 
times, one of the guard who came to 
open the door informed him that the 
bodies had not been identified, and that 
the old policeman had not been seen since 
he left there early in the morning. 

“This is a bad beginning,” thought 
Lecoq. “I will go and get some dinner 
— that will, perhaps, change the luck; 
and I have certainly earned the bottle of 
good wine to which I intend to treat my- 
self.” 

It was a happy thought. Some dinner 
and a couple of glasses of Bordeaux sent 
new courage and energy coursing through 
his veins. If he still felt weary, the sen- 
sation was greatly diminished when he 
left the restaurant with a cigar between 
his lips. 

Just at that moment he longed for the 
carriage and the good horse of Father 
Papillon. Fortunately, a fiacre was pass- 
ing; he hired it, and as the clock struck 
eight he alighted at the square near the 
northern depot. He looked about a little 
first, then he began his search, 

It must be understood that he did not 
present himself in his official capacity. 
That would be a sure way of learning 
nothing. 

By brushing back his hair and turning 
up his coat collar, he made a very con- 
siderable alteration in his appearance; 
and it was with a very pronounced Eng- 
lish accent that he asked information 
concerning a “foreign workman.” 

But vainly he employed all his address 
in questioning parties; everywhere he 
received the same response : 

“We do not know such a person; we 
have not seen any one answering this 
description.” 

Any other reply would have astonished 
Lecoq, so strongly persuaded was he that 
the prisoner had only related this inci- 
dent of a trunk left at one of these hotels 
in order to give a semblance of truth to 
his narrative. 

Still he continued his investigation. If 
he noted upon his memorandum book all 
the hotels he had visited, it was only be- 
cause he wished to make sure of the dis- 
comfiture of the prisoner when they 
brought him here to prove the truth of 
his story. 

At last he reached the Hotel de Ma- 
riembourg, on the corner of the Rue de 
St. Quentin. 

The house was modest in its propor- 
tions; but seemed respectable and well 
kept. Lecoq pushed open the glass 
doors, furnished with a spring bell, that 
opened into the vestibule, and entered 
the office — a neat room, brightly lighted. 

There was a woman in the office. She 
was standing upon a chair, her face on a 
level with a large bird-cage, covered with 
a piece of black silk ; and she was re- 
peating three or four German words with 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


C5 


groat earnestness to the occupant of the 
cage. 

She was so engrossed in this occupa- 
tion that Lecoq was obliged to make con- 
siderable noise before he could attract 
her attention. 

As she turned, he said : 

“Ah! good-evening, madame ; you are 
much interested, I see, in teaching your 
parrot to talk.” 

“It is not a parrot that I have here,” 
replied the woman, who had not yet de- 
scended from her perch; “it is a starling, 
I am trying to teach it to say in German : 
‘Have you breakfasted?’ ” 

What! can starlings talk?” 

“As well as persons. Yes, monsieur.” 
said the woman, jumping down from her 
chair. 

Just then the bird, as if it had under- 
stood the question, cried very distinctly : 

“Camille! Where is Camille?” 

But Lecoq was too anxious to bestow 
much attention upon the bird. 

“Madame,” he began, “1 wish to speak 
to the proprietor of this hotel.” 

“I am the proprietor. 

“Oh! very well. 1 was expecting a 
mechanic — from Leipsic, to meet me here 
in Paris. To my great surprise, he has 
not made his appearance ; and I came to 
inquire if he was stopping here? His 
name is May.” 

“May!” repeated the hostess, thought- 
fully. “May !” 

“He ought to have arrived last Sunday 
evening.” 

The woman’s face brightened. 

“Wait a moment,” said she. “Was 
this friend a middle-aged man, of medium 
size, of very dark complexion — wearing 
a full beard, and having very bright 
eyes ?” 

Lecoq trembled. This was a perfect 
description of the murderer. 

“Yes,” he stammered, “that is a very 
good portrait of the man.” 

“Ah, well! Monsieur, he came here on 
the afternoon of Shrove Sunday. He 
asked for a cheap room, and I showed 
him one on the fifth floor. The office- 
boy was not here at the time, and he 
insisted upon taking his trunk up stairs 
himself. I offered him some refresh- 
ments ; but he declined to take anything, 
on account of his being in a great hurry ; 
and he Avent away after giving me ten 
francs as security for his room-rent.” 

“Where is he?” inquired the young de- 
tective. 

“il/cm Dieul monsieur, that reminds 
me,” replied the woman. “This man has 
not returned, and I have been very anx- 
ious about him. Paris is such a danger- 
ous place for strangers! It is true he 
spoke French as well as you or I ; but 
what of that? Last evening I gave or- 
ders that the commissioner of police 
should be informed of the matter.” 


“Yesterday — the commissioner !” 

“Yes. Still I do not know whether 
the bo} r did the errand. 1 had forgotten 
all about it. Allow me to ring for the 
boy, and ask him.” 

A bucket of ice water falling upon the 
head of the detective, could not hav<? 
astonished him more than this announce- 
ment from the proprietress of the Hotel 
de Mariembourg. 

Had the murderer indeed told the 
truth? Could it be possible? Gevrol and 
the keeper of the prison were right, then ! 
And M. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were 
senseless fools, pursuing a phantom. 

All this flashed like lightning through 
the brain of the detective. 

But he had no time for reflection. The 
boy who had been summoned made his 
appearance — a big, overgrown boy — with 
a frank, chubby face. 

“Fritz,” demanded his mistress, “did 
you go to the office of the commission- 
er ?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He was not in ; but I spoke to his sec- 
retary, M. Casimir, who told me to tell 
you not to worry yourself, that the man 
would return.” 

“He has not returned.” 

The boy raised his arms, with that 
movement of the shoulders which is the 
most eloquent translation of that re- 
sponse : 

“What would you have me do about 
it?” 

“You hear, sir,” said the hostess, ap- 
parently thinking the importunate ques- 
tioner would withdraw. 

Such, however, was not the intention 
of Lecoq, and he did not move, though 
he had need of all his self-possession to 
retain his English accent. 

“This is very annoying,” said he, 
“very ! I am even more anxious and un- 
decided than I was before, since I am 
not certain that this is the man I am 
seeking.” 

“But, sir, what more can I tell you?” 

Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting 
his brows and biting his lips, as if he 
were trying to invent some means of 
solving the mystery. 

The fact is, he was seeking some adroit 
circumlocution by which he could pro- 
pose that this woman should show him 
the register in which all guests are com- 
pelled to inscribe their full names, their 
profession, and their residence; but he 
feared to arouse her suspicions. 

“But, madame, can you not remember 
the name which this man gave you? Was 
it May ? Try to recollect if that was the 
name — May — May !” 

“Ah! I have so many things to re- 
member.” 

“It would be a great convenience if 
each guest were required to inscribe his 


66 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


name in a register, as is the custom in 
England.” 

“But they do register,” replied the 
•woman. “I have a book for that pur- 
pose, in which a whole column is allotted 
to each guest. And now I think of it ; 
'I could, if it would oblige you, show you 
my book. It is there, in the drawer of 
my secretary. Well, now! what can I 
have done with my key?” 

And while the hostess, who seemed to 
possess but little more intelligence than 
her bird, was turning the whole office up- 
side down in her search for the key, Le- 
coq scrutinized her closely. 

She was about forty years of age, with 
an abundance of light hair, and a very 
fair complexion. She was well preserved 
— that is to say — she was plump and 
healthy in appca'ance; her glance was 
frank and unembarrassed ; her voice was 
clear and musical, and her manners were 
pleasing, and entirely free from affecta- 
tion. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I have found 
the miserable key at last.” 

“She opened her desk, took out the 
register, which she laid upon the table, 
and began turning over the leaves. 

At last she found the desired page. 

“Sunday, February 20th,” said she. 
“Look, monsieur : here on the seventh 
line — May — no Christian name — foreign 
artist — coming from Leipsic — without 
papers.” 

While Lecoq was examining this record 
with a dazed air, the woman exclaimed: 

“Ah! now I can explain how it hap- 
pened that I forgot this name — May, and 
this strange profession — foreign artist. I 
did not write it myself.” 

“Who did write it, then?” 

“The man himself, while I was finding 
ten francs to give him as change for the 
louis he handed me. You can see that 
the writing is not at all like that in which 
the names above and below are re- 
corded.” 

Yes, Lecoq had observed that fact; 
and it was an irrefutable argument, as 
sure and as strong as a blow from a cud- 
gel. 

“Are you sure,” he insisted, “that this 
record is in the man’s handwriting; 
Would you swear it?” 

In his anxiety, he had forgotten his 
foreign accent. The woman noticed this 
at once, for she drew back and cast 
a suspicious glance at the pretended 
stranger. Then defiance and anger at 
having been duped seemed to take pos- 
session of her. 

“I know what I am saying,” she said, 
indignantly. “And now this is enough, 
is it not?” 

Knowing that he had betrayed himself, 
and thoroughly ashamed of* his lack of 
coolness, Lecoq renounced his English 
accent altogether. 


“Pardon me,” he said, “if I ask one 
more question. Have you this man’s 
trunk in your possession?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Ah! you would do me an immense 
service by showing it to me.” 

“Show it to you!” exclaimed the fair- 
haired hostess, angrily. “What do you 
take me for? What do you want? and 
who are you?” 

“In a half hour you shall know,” re- 
plied the detective, realizing that further 
persuasion would be useless. 

He hastily left the ‘room, ran to the 
Place de Robaux, leaped into a carriage, 
and giving the driver the address of the 
commissioner of police for that district, 
promised him a hundred sous over and 
above the regular fare if he would make 
haste. As might have been expected 
under such circumstances, the poor 
horses fairly flew under the stroke of the 
whip. 

Lecoq was fortunate enough to find 
the commissioner at home. The detec- 
tive made known his business, and was 
immediately ushered into the presence of 
the magistrate. 

“Ah! sir,” he cried, “will you assist 
me?” 

And in a breath he told his story. 

When it w^as concluded : 

“It is really true that they came to in- 
form me of this man’s disappearance,” 
said the judge. “Casimir told me about 
it this morning.” 

4 ‘They — came — to inform — you ” 

faltered Lecoq. 

“Yes, yesterday ; but I have had so 
much to occupy my time. Now, my boy, 
“how can I serve you?” * 

“Come with me, sir; compel them to 
show us the trunk, and send for a lock- 
smith to open it. Here is the authority 
— a search warrant given me by the judge 
to use in case of necessity. Let us lose 
no time. I have a carriage at the door.” 

“We will start at once,” said the com- 
missioner. 

When they had entered the fiacre , 
which started oft’ at a gallop : 

“Now, sir,” said the young detective, 
“permit me to ask if you know this 
woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg?” 

44 Yes, indeed, I know her very well. 
When I was first appointed to this dis- 
trict, six years ago, I was not married, 
and for a long time I took my meals at 
this lady’s table dhote. Casimir, my sec- 
retary, boards there yet.” 

“And what kind of a woman is she?” 

“Why, upon my word, my young 
friend, Mine. Milner — for such is her 
name — is a very respectable widow (es- 
teemed and much beloved in this neigh- 
borhood), who has a very prosperous 
business, and who remains a widow only 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


67 


from choice, for she is extremely agree- 
able, and has plenty of suitors.” 

“Then you do not think her capable, 
for the sake of a good round sum, of — 
what shall I say? — of serving some very 
rich culprit ■” 

“Have you gone mad?” interrupted the 
commissioner. “Mine. Milner consent 
to testify falsely for the sake of money ! 
Have I not just told you that she is an 
! honest woman, and that she has a very 
comfortable fortune! Besides, she in- 
formed me yesterday that this man was 
missing, so ” 

Lecoq made no reply ; they had reached 
their destination. 

On seeing her obstinate questioner re- 
appear, accompanied by the commis- 
sioner, Mine. Milner seemed to under- 
stand it all. 

“ Mon Dieu /” she exclaimed, “a detec- 
tive! I might have known it! Some 
crime has been committed ; and now my 
hotel has lost its reputation forever!” 

It took quite a long time to reassure 
and to console her ; ail the time that was 
required to find a locksmith. 

At last they went up to the room of the 
missing man, and Lecoq sprang to the 
trunk. 

Ah ! there was no denying it. It had, 
indeed, come from Leipsic; the little 
slips of paper pasted upon it by the differ- 
ent railroad companies proved it. 

They opened it and found the articles 
mentioned by the prisoner. 

Lecoq was petrified. With an almost 
stupefied air he watched the commission- 
er as he locked everything up in a cup- 
board and took possession of the key ; 
then he felt that he could endure no more. 
He left the room with downcast head; 
and they heard him stumble like a drunk- 
en man as he descended the stairs. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, was 
very gay that year ; that is to say : the 
pawnbroker’s shops and the public balls 
were crowded. 

When Lecoq left the Hotel de Mariein- 
bourg about midnight, the streets were 
as full as if it were noon-day, and the 
cafes were thronged with customers. 

But the young man had no heart for 
gayety. He mingled with the crowd 
without seeing it, and jostled groups of 
people chatting on the corners, without 
hearing the imprecations occasioned by 
his awkwardness. 

Where was he going ! He had no idea. 
He walked on aimlessly, more inconsol- 
able and desperate than the gambler who 
has staked his last hope with his last 
louis and lost. 

“I must yield,” he murmured ; u this 


evidence* is conclusive. My presump- 
tions were only chimeras; my deduc- 
tions, the plajdliings of chance ! There 
only remains for me now to withdraw, 
with the least possible damage and ridi- 
cule, from the false position I have as- 
sumed.” 

Just as he reached the boulevard, a 
new idea entered his brain, startling him 
so much that he could scarcely restrain 
a cry. 

‘M am a fool, he exclaimed, striking 
his hand violently against his forehead. 

“Is it possible,” he continued, “that 
I am so strong in theory, yet so ridicu- 
lously weak in practice. Ah! I am only 
a child, yet a novice, disheartened by 
the slightest obstacle. I meet some diffi- 
culty. I lose courage and even the pow- 
er to reason. 

“Now, let me reflect calmly. 

“What did I tell the judge about this 
man, whose plan of defence so puzzles 
us? 

“Did I not tell him that we had to deal 
with a man of superior talent — with a 
man of consummate penetration, and 
experience — a bold, courageous man, 
who possesses an imperturbable coolness, 
and who will do anything to ensure the 
success of his plans ? 

“Yes; I told him all this, and yet, I 
give up in despair as soon as I meet a 
single circumstance that I cannot explain 
at once. 

“It is evident, then, that this prisoner 
would not be likely to resort to old and 
hackneyed methods, and commonplace 
expedients. Ought I not to expect that 
it would require time, patience, and re- 
search to find a flaw in his defence? 

“Consequently, the more appearances 
are against my presumptions, and in favor 
of the story told by the prisoner, the 
more certain it is that I am right — or 
logic is no longer logic.” 

The young man burst into a hearty 
laugh, and added : 

“But to expose this theory at head- 
quarters before Gevrol would perhaps 
be premature, and would win me a certi- 
ficate entitling me to admission into the 
lunatic asylum.” 

He paused ; he had reached his lodg- 
ings. He rang the bell ; some one opened 
the door. 

He groped his way slowly up to the 
fourth floor; he reached his room, and 
was about to enter, when a voice in the 
darkness called out : 

“Is that you. Monsieur Lecoq?” 

“It is I,” replied the young man, some- 
what surprised; “but who are you?” 

“I am Father Absinthe.” 

“Upon my word! Well, you are wel- 
come ! I did not recognize your voice— 
“will you come in?” 

They entered, and Lecoq lit a candle. 
Then the young man could see his col- 


68 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


league, and, good heavens! what a con- 
dition he was in ! ) 

He was as dirty and spattered with 
mud as a lost dog which has been wan- 
dering about in the rain and mire for 
three or four days. His overcoat bore 
traces of frequent contact with damp 
walls ; his hat had lost its form entirely. 
His eyes were anxious; his moustache 
drooped despondently. He mumbled his 
words as if his mouth were full of sand. 

u Do you bring me bad news?” inquired 
Lecoq, after a short examination of his 
companion. 

“Bad.” 

“The people you were following es- 
caped you, then?” 

The old man nodded his head in the 
affirmative. 

“It is unfortunate — very unfortunate !” 
said Lecoq. “But it is useless to distress 
ourselves about it. Do not be so cast 
down, Father Absinthe. To-morrow, be- 
tween us, we will repair the damages.” 

This friendly encouragement redoubled 
the old man's evident embarassment. He 
flushed, this veteran, like a school-girl, 
and raising his hands towards Heaven, he 
exclaimed : 

“Ah, wretch ! did I not tell you so?” 

“Why! what is the matter with you?” 
inquired Lecoq. 

Father Absinthe made no reply ; he ap- 
proached the mirror and began heaping 
the most cruel insults upon the reflection 
of his features therein. 

“Old good-for-nothing !” he exclaimed. 
“Vile soldier ! have you no shame left? 
You were entrusted with a mission, were 
you not? And how have you fulfilled it? 
You have drank, wretch, until you drank 
away your senses like an old sot, as you 
are This shall not be passed over thus ; 
and even if M. Lecoq forgives me, you 
shall not taste another drop for a week. 
You shall sutler for this escapade.” 

“Come, come,” said Lecoq, “you can 
sermonize by and by. Now tell me your 
story.” 

“Ah ! I am not proud of it. I beg you 
to believe that ; but never mind. Doubt- 
less you received the letter in which I 
told you that I was going to follow the 
young men who seemed to recognize 
Gustave?'’ 

“Yes, yes — go on!” 

“Well, as soon as they entered the 
ca/e, into which I had followed them, the 
young men began drinking, probably to 
drive away their emotion. After drink- 
ing, hunger apparently seized them, for 
they ordered breakfast. In my corner I 
followed their example. The repast, the 
coffee and beer all took time. Two hours 
elapsed before they were ready to pay 
their bill and go. Good! I supposed 
they would now return to their homes — 
not at all. They walked down the Rue 
Dauphin ; and I saw them enter a coffee- 


house or smoking-room. Five minutes 
later I glided in after them; they were 
already engaged in a game of billiards.” 

He hesitated ; it was not easy to tell 
the rest of his story. 

“I seated mj r self at a little table, and 
asked for a newspaper. I was reading 
with one eye, and watching them with 
the other, when a worthy bourgeois en- 
tered, and took a seat beside me. As 
soon as he had seated himself he asked 
me to give him the paper w r hen I had 
finished reading it. 1 handed it to him, 
and then we began talking ’of the 
weather. At last he proposed a game of 
bezique. I declined, and w r e afterwards 
compromized on a game of piquet. The 
young men, you understand, were still 
knocking the balls about. We began 
playing, the stakes, a glass of brandy 
for each. I won. The bourgeois de- 
manded his revenge, and we played tw r o 
more games. Still I w r on. He insisted 
upon another game, and again I won, and 
still I drank— and drank again ” 

“Go on, go on.” 

“Ah ! here is the rub. After that I can 
remember nothing — neither of the bour- 
geois nor of the young men. It seems 
to me, how r ever that 1 recollect falling 
asleep in the ca/e, and a v r aiter coming 
to wake me ancl tell me to go. Then I 
must have w r andered about on the quays 
until I came to my senses, and decided 
to come and wait upon your stairs until 
you returned.” 

To the great surprise of Father Ab- 
sinthe, Lecoq seemed rather thoughtful 
than angry. 

“What do you think about this bour- 
geois, papa?” inquired Lecoq. 

“1 think that he was following me 
while I was following the others, and 
that he entered the cafe with ihe inten- 
tion of getting me intoxicated.” 

“Give me a description of him.” 

“He w r as a tall and rather stout man, 
with a broad, red face, a flat nose; 
and he was very unpretending and affable 
in manner.” 

“It was he!” exclaimed Lecoq. 

“He! Who?” 

“The accomplice — the man whose foot- 
prints we discovered — the pretended 
drunkard — a devil incarnate, who will 
get the best of us yet, if we do not keep 
our eyes open. Do not forget him, 
papa; and if you ever meet him 
again ” 

But Father Absinthe's confession was 
not ended. Like most devotees, he had 
reserved the worst sin for the last. 

“This is not all,” he resumed; “and I 
wish to conceal nothing from you. It 
seems to me that this traitor talked with 
me about the affair at the Poivriere, and 
that I told him all that we had discovered, 
and all that we intended to do.” 

Lecoq made such a threatening gesture 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


69 


that tTia o’l man drew back in conster-; 
nation. 

“Wretched man I” he exclaimed, “to 
betray our plans to the enemy 17 

But he soon regained his calmness. 
At first the evil seemed to be beyond 
remedy ; then he discovered that it had a 
good side, after all. It removed all the 
doubts he had felt after his visit to the 
Hotel de Mariembourg. 

“But this is not the time for delibera- 
tion, resumed the young detective. “I 
am overcome with fatigue; take a mat- 
tress from the bed for yourself, my 
friend, and let us go to rest.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Lecoq was a thoughtful man. Before 
going to bed he took good care to wind 
an alarm-clock that stood in his room, 
setting the alarm at six o'clock. 

“So that we shall not miss the coach,” 
he remarked to liis companion, as he blew 
out the candle. 

But he had not made allowance for his 
extreme weariness, and for the fumes of 
alcohol with which his friend's breath 
was redolent. 

When the clock of Saint Eustache 
pealed forth the hour of six the alarm- 
clock performed its duty faithfully ; but 
the shrill sound of the ingenious mech- 
anism was not sufficiently loud to dis- 
turb the heavy sleep of the two men. 

They would probably have slept some 
time longer, if, at half-past seven o'clock, 
two vigorous blows of the fist had not 
resounded on their door. 

With one bound Lecoq was out of bed, 
amazed at seeing the bright sunlight, and 
furious at the uselessness of his precau- 
tions. 

“Come in!” he cried to his early 
visitor. 

The young detective had no enemies at 
that time, and he could, without danger, 
sleep with his door unlocked. 

The door opened, and the shrewd face 
of Father Papillon appeared. 

“Ah! it is my worthy coachman!” 
exclaimed Lecoq. “Is there anything 
new?” 

“Excuse me, friend ; it is the old cause 
that brings me here. You know — the 
thirty francs those wretched women paid 
me — I shall not sleep in peace till I have 
carried you free, until your regular fare 
would be equal to that amount. You 
made use of my carriage yesterday, one 
hundred sous’ worth, and so I still owe 
you twenty-five francs worth of riding.” 

“This is all nonsense, my friend!” 

“Possibly; but I am responsible for it. 
I have sworn if you will not use my car- 
riage to station myself and my vehicle 
before your door for eleven hours. At 


two francs and twenty-five centimes an 
hour eleven hours would release me from 
my indebtedness. We should be even. 
Now, make up your mind."’ 

He gazed at Lecoq beseechingly; it 
was evident that a refusal would wound 
him keenly. 

“Very well.” replied Lecoq; “I will 
take your carriage for the morning, only 
I ought to warn you that we are starting 
on a long journey.” 

“Cocotle’s legs may be relied upon.” 

“My companion and myself have busi- 
ness in your quarter of the city-. It is 
absolutely necessary for us to find the 
Widow Chupin's daughter-in-law ; and I 
hope we shall be able to obtain her ad- 
dress from the commissioner of that dis- 
trict.” 

“Very well, we will go wherever you 
wish; 1 am at your orders.” 

A few moments later they were on 
their way. 

Papillon, proudly erect upon his box, 
cracked his whip; and the vehicle tore 
along as rapidly as if the driver had been 
promised a hundred sous as pour-boire. 

Father Absinthe alone, was sad. He 
had been forgiven, but he could not for- 
give himself that he, an old policeman, 
should have been duped like some igno- 
rant provincial. If only he had not con- 
fided the secret plans of the prosecution ! 

He knew but too well that by this act 
he had increased the difficulties of their 
task twofold. 

Their long drive was not fruitless. 
The secretary of the commissioner of po- 
lice for the thirteenth district informed 
Lecoq that the wife of Polyte Chupin, 
with her child, lived in the suburbs, in 
the Rue de la Butte-aux-Caiiles. He 
could not tell the precise number ; but he 
described the house, and gave them some 
information concerning its occupants. 

The Widow Chupin's daughter-in-law 
was a native of Auvergne ; and she had 
been bitterly punished for preferring a 
Parisian to a compatriot. 

She came to Paris when about twelve 
years of age, and obtained employment 
in a large factory. At the end of ten 
years of privation and constant toil, she. 
had amassed, penny by penny, the sum 
of three thousand francs. Then her evil 
genius threw Polyte Chupin in her path. 

She fell in love with this dissipated 
and selfish rascal ; and he married her for 
her little hoard. 

As long as the money lasted, that is,- 
for about three or four months, every- 
thing went on pleasantly. But as soon 
as the last shilling was gone, Polyte left 
her, and, with delight, resumed his for- 
mer life of idleness, thieving, and de- 
bauchery. 

After this he returned to his wife, only 
in order to steal from her, when he sus- 
pected that she had saved a little money. 


70 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


And, periodically, she uncomplainingly 
allowed him to despoil her of the last 
penny of her earnings. 

He wished to degrade her still more, 
fo" he hungered even for the price of her 
shame ; but she resisted. 

By this resistance, she had excited the 
hatred of the old Widow Chupin — hatred 
which manifested itself in such ill-treat- 
ment that the poor woman was forced to 
flee one night, with only the rags that 
covered her. 

The mother and the son believed, per- 
haps, that starvation would effect what 
their threats and counsel had failed to 
accomplish. 

Their shameful expectations had not 
been gratified. 

The secretary added that these facts 
had become widely known, and that ev- 
erybody did justice to the worth of the 
brave woman. 

Hence the sobriquet which had been 
given her — Toinon, the virtuous — a rather 
coarse, but sincere tribute to her worth. 

Grateful for this information, Lecoq 
reentered the carriage. 

The Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, to 
which Papillcn was rapidly conducting 
fhem, did not bear much resemblance to 
the Boulevard Maxelherbes. Was it the 
abode of millionaires? One would not 
suppose it. One thing is certain, how- 
ever: all the inhabitants knew one an- 
other as they do in a village, and the first 
person of whom Lecoq asked information 
concerning Madame Polyte Chupin, re- 
lieved him of all embarassment. 

“Toinon, the virtuous, lives in that 
house on the right,” was the answer; 
“on the upper floor, the door facing 
you.” 

The directions were so precise that Le- 
coq and Father Absinthe went straight to 
the room they were seeking. 

It was a cold and gloomy attic room, 
of medium size, and lighted by a small 
skylight. 

A pallet of straw, a broken table, two 
chairs, and a few plain kitchen utensils, 
formed the sole furniture of the apart- 
ment. 

But, in spite of the evident poverty, 
everything shone with neatness ; and one 
could have eaten oft’ the floor, to use 
Father Absinthe’s forcible expression. 

The two officers entered, and found a 
woman engaged in making heavy linen 
sacks. She was seated in the centre of 
the room, directly under the window, so 
that the light would fall upon her work. 

At the sight of two strangers, she half 
rose, surprised, and perhaps a little 
frightened; but when they explained 
that they desired a few moments conver- 
sation with her, she gave up her own 
seat, to offer it to them. 

But Father Absinthe insisted that she 
should sit down again, and he remained. 


standing, while Lecoq took possession 
of the other chair. 

In a single glance Lecoq took an inven- 
tory of the humble abode, and, so to 
speak, appraised the woman. 

She was short, stout, and extremely 
ordinary in appearance. A forest of 
coarse, black hair, growing very low on 
the forehead, and large black eyes set 
very close together, imparted to her 
countenance something of the patient 
resignation one sees in the faces of ill- 
treated animals. 

Possibly, in former days, she had pos- 
sessed what we called the beauty du 
diable ; but now she looked almost as 
old as her mother-in-law. 

Sorrow and privation, excessive toil, 
nights spent in labor, tears and the blows 
she had received, had made her complex- 
ion livid — had reddened her eyes and 
made deep furrows about her temples. 

Still her whole person exhaled a per- 
fume of native honesty which had not 
been tainted, even by the foul atmosphere 
in which she had lived. 

Her child did not resemble her in the 
least. He was pale, and puny in appear- 
ance; his eyes burned with a phosphor- 
escent brilliancy ; and his hair was of 
that faded yellow tint that they call 
blonde in Paris. 

One little circumstance attracted the 
attention of both officers. 

The mother was attired in a very old 
and faded calico dress ; but the child was 
warmly clad in warm woolen material. 

“Madame, you have doubtless heard 
of a great crime, committed in your 
mother-in-law’s establishment.” began 
Lecoq, gently. 

“Alas ! yes, monsieur.” 

Then she quickly added : 

“But my husband cOuld not have been 
implicated in it, since he is in prison.” 

Did not this objection, which preceded 
suspicion, betray the most horrible ap- 
prehensions ? 

“Yes, I am aware of that,” replied her 
visitor. “Polyte was arrested a fort- 
night ago ” 

“Yes, and very unjustly, monsieur. I 
could swear it. He was, as is often the 
case, led astray by his companions, wick- 
ed, desperate men. He is so weak when 
he has taken a glass of wine, they can 
do whatsoever they will with him. If 
he were only left to himself, he would 
not harm a child. One has only to look 
at him ” 

As she spoke she turned her red and 
swollen eyes to a miserable photograph 
hanging upon the wall. The picture 
represented a frightfully ugly, dissipated 
looking young man, with a terrible squint, 
a repulsive mouth, onl}'- partially con- 
cealed by a faint moustache, and his 
hair carefully plastered down about the 
| temples. This was Polyte. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


71 


Yet there was no mistaking the fact 
that this unfortunate woman loved him 
— had always loved him; besides, he was 
her husband. 

A moment’s silence followed this act, 
which revealed the existence of passion 
so clearly ; and during this silence the 
door of the room was opened softly. 

A man put in his head and withdrew 
it instantly, with a low exclamation. 
Then the door closed again, the key 
grated in the lock, and they heard hur- 
ried steps descending the staircase. 

Lecoq was sitting with his back to the 
door, and could not see the face of the 
visitor. 

And yet he had turned so quickly at 
the sound, and he understood the whole 
affair so well that he was not surprised 
at all. 

Indeed, he did not feel the shadow of 
a doubt. 

“It is he, the accomplice!’’ he cried. 

Thanks to his position, Father Absin- 
the had seen the man's face. 

“Yes,” said he, “yes, I recognize the 
man who made me drink with him yes- 
terday.” 

With abound the two men threw them- 
selves against the door, exhausting their 
strength in vain efforts to open it. It re- 
sisted all their attempts, for it was of 
solid oak, having been purchased by the 
proprietor of the house from some one of 
the public buildings in process of demol- 
ition, and it was furnished with a strong 
and massive fastening. 

“Help us!” cried Father Absinthe to 
the woman, who stood petrified with as- 
tonishment ; “give us an iron bar, a piece 
of iron, a nail — anything!” 

The younger man was making frantic 
efforts to push back the bolt, or to tear 
the lock from the wood. He was wild 
with rage. 

At last they succeeded in forcing it 
open, and the two men. animated by an 
equal ardor, dashed out in pursuit of 
their mysterious adversary. 

When they reached the street, they 
made inquiries of the bystanders. They 
could give a description of the man, and 
that was something Two persons had 
seen him enter the house of Toinon, the 
virtuous ; a third had seen him when he 
ran out. Some children who were play- 
ing on the street assured them that this 
individual had run in the direction of 
the Rue du Moulin-des-Pres as fast as his 
legs could carry him. 

It was in this street, near the corner of 
the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, that Le- 
coq had ordered his coachman to stop. 

“Let us hasten there !” proposed Father 
Absinthe ; “perhaps Papillon can give us 
some information.” 

But his companion shook his head de- 
spondently, and would go no further. 

“What good would it do?” he asked. 


“The presence of mind that made this 
man think to turn the key, has saved 
him. He is at least ten minutes in ad- 
vance of us ; by this time he is far away, 
and we should not overtake him.” 

Father Absinthe was livid with anger. 
He now regarded as a personal enemy 
this adroit accomplice who had so cruelly 
duped him ; and he would have given a 
month’s pay to be able to lay liis hand 
on the man’s collar. 

“Ah !” this brigand does not lack as- 
surance,” said he. “To think how he 
defies and mocks us ; and how for the 
third time he has escaped us. Three 
times !” 

The young detective was at least as 
angry as his companion — and his vanity 
was wounded besides; but he felt the 
necessity of coolness and deliberation. 

“Yes,” he replied, thoughtfully, “the 
man is daring and shrewd ; and he does 
not sit down with folded arms. If we 
are working, he also is bestirring him- 
self. The demon is everywhere. On 
whichever side I make an attack, I find 
him on the defensive. It was he, my 
friend, who made you lose the clue to 
Gustave’s identity: it was he who ar- 
ranged that little comedy at the Hotel de 
Mariembourg.” 

“And now remarked his companion, 
“now let the General come and tell us 
that we are chasing phantoms.” 

This flattery, delicate as it was, did not 
divert Leeoq’s attention from the matter 
under consideration. 

“Until now, this man has been in ad- 
vance of us everywhere; this fact ex- 
plains the failures that have attended all 
my efforts. Here, we arrived before him 
But if he came here, it was because he 
scented danger. Therefore, we may 
hope. Let us return 'to the wife of this 
rascal, Polyte.” 

Alas! poor Toinon, the virtuous, did 
not understand this affair. She had re- 
mained up-stairs, holding her child by 
the hand, and leaning over the bannister, 
her eyes and her ears cn the qui vive. 

As soon as she perceived the two men 
leisurely ascending the stairs, she came 
to meet them. 

“In the name of Heaven, what does all 
this mean?” she exclaimed. “What has 
happened ?” 

But Lecoq was not the man to tell his 
affairs in a corridor, tapestried, perhaps, 
with listening and curious ears, and it 
was not until he had made Toinon enter 
her own apartment and close the door 
securely, that he answered her. 

“We started in pursuit of an accom- 
plice to the murders at the Poivriere. 
He came in, hoping to find you alone, 
but our presence frightened him.” 

“An assassin!” faltered Toinon, with 
clasped hands. “What could he want of 
me?” 


72 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“Who can say? It is very probable 
that he is one of your husband's friends.” 

“Oh! monsieur.” 

“What, did you not tell me just now 
that Polyte had some very undesirable 
acquaintance ? But do not be alarmed ; 
this does not compromise him in the 
least. Besides, you can very easily clear 
him of all suspicion.” 

“How? In what way? Oh, tell me at 
at once.” 

“Merely by answering me frankly, and 
by assisting me — you, who are an honest 
woman — to find the guilty party. Among 
all the friends of your husband, do you 
know of none capable of such a deed? 
Give me the names of his acquaintances.” 

The poor woman's hesitation was evi- 
dent ; undoubtedly she had been present 
at many sinister cabals, and had been 
threatened with terrible punishment if 
she dared to disclose their plans. 

“You have nothing to fear,” said Le- 
coq, encouragingly, “and never. I prom- 
ise you, shall any one know that you 
have told me a word. And very prob- 
ably you can tell me nothing that I do 
not know now. I have heard much of 
your life already, to say nothing of the 
brutality with which you have been 
treated by Polyte and his mother.” 

“My husband, sir, has never treated 
me brutally,” said the young woman, in- 
dignantly; “besides, that is something 
which concerns only myself.” 

“And your mother-in-law?” 

“She is, perhaps, a trifle quick-tem- 
pered ; but in reality, she has a very good 
heart.” 

“Then why did you flee from the 
Widow Chupin’s house, if you were so 
very happy there?” 

Toinon, the virtupus, turned scarlet to 
the very roots of her hair. 

“I left there for other reasons,” she 
responded. “There were always a great 
many intoxicated men about the house ; 
and, sometimes, when I was alone, some 
of them wished to carry their pleasantry 
too far You will probably say that I 
have a very solid fist, and that I am quite 
capable of protecting myself. That is 
true, so I could, perhaps have borne it. 
But when I was away, some of them 
were wicked enough to make this child 
drink to snch an excess that on my re- 
turn I found him as stiff and cold as if 
he were dead. It was necessary to call 
a physician to restore him ” 

She suddenly paused ; her eyes dilated. 
From red she turned livid, and ip a 
choked, unnatural voice, she cried : 

, “Toto! wretched child !” 

Lecoq looked behind him, and shud- 
dered. He understood it all. This child 
who was not yet five years old, had 
stolen up behind him, and was ferreting 
in the pockets of his overcoat, had plun- 


dered them, had rifled them of their con- 
tents. 

“Ah, well — yes !” exclaimed the unfor- 
tunate mother, bursting into tears. “It 
way always so over there. As soon as 
the child was out of my sight, they took 
him to the city. They carried him into 
the crowded streets, and they taught him 
to pick people’s pockets, and to bring 
them all he could find. If he was de- 
tected they were angry with the child, 
and beat him. If he succeeded they gave 
him a sou to buy candy, and kept what 
he had taken.” 

She hid her face in her hands, and in 
an almost unintelligible voice she sobbed. 

“And I did not wish my little one to 
be a thief !” 

But what this poor creature did not 
tell was that he who had led the child 
out into the streets, to te *ch him to steal, 
was its own father, and her husband, 
Polyte Chupin. But the two men under- 
stood this perfectly ; and so horrible was 
the man’s crime, and so despairing the 
grief of the woman, that they were 
touched in the very depths of their souls. 

After that, Lecoq’s only thought was 
to shorten the painful scene as much as 
possible. Besides, the poor mother’s emo- 
tion was a sufficient guarrantee of her 
sincerity. 

“Listen,” said he, with affected harsh- 
ness ; two questions only, and then I will 
leave you. Among the habitues of the 
establishment was there a man by the 
name of Gustave?” 

“No, sir; I am very sure there was 
not.” 

“Very well. But Lacheneur — you 
must know Lacheneur !” 

“Yes, sir; I know him.” 

The young policeman could not repress 
an exclamation of delight. He thought 
that he at last held an end of the thread 
that would lead him to the light — to the 
truth. 

“Who is this man?” he inquired, with 
intense anxiety. 

“Oh ! he is not at all like the other men 
who come to drink at my mother-in-law’s 
saloon. I have seen him only once ; but 
I remember him perfectly. * It was on 
Sunday. He was in a carriage. He 
stopped near the unoccupied ground and 
spoke to Polyte. When he went away 
my husband said to me : k Do you see that 
old man there? he will make our for- 
tune.’ I thought him a very respectable 
looking gentleman ” 

“That is enough,” interrupted Lecoq. 
“Now it is necessary for you to appear 
before the judge and make your deposi- 
tion. I have a carriage below Take 
your child with you, if you wish; but 
make haste ; .come quickly — come I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


73 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

M. Segmuller was one of those mag- 
istrates who cherish their profession with 
an undivided love, who give themselves to 
it, body and soul, devoting to it all the 
energy, intelligence and sagacity of 
which they are possessed. 

As a judge, he displayed, in the search 
after truth, the tenacity and zeal of a 
physician struggling against some 
unknown disease — the enthusiasm of the 
artist who is wearing out his very life in 
his devotion to the beautiful. 

Hence, it is easy to understand how 
deeply he had become interested in this 
mysterious case which had been confided 
to him. 

He found in it all the elements that 
cannot fail to awaken intense interest. 
The magnitude of the crime, the peculiar 
circumstances attending it, the impene- 
trable mystery that enshrouded the vic- 
tims and the murderer, the strange atti- 
tude assumed by the prisoner, all served 
to make a profound impression upon his 
mind. 

The romantic element was not lacking, 
furnished by the two women, all traces of 
whom had been lost. 

The extreme uncertainty of the result 
was another attraction. Self-love never 
loses its rights ; and M. Segmuller felt 
that success would be honorable in pro- 
portion to the magnitude of the difficul- 
ties to be overcome. And assisted by 
such a man as Lecoq, in whom he had 
recognized a most valuable auxiliary, and 
a man with a positive genius for his call- 
ing, he felt quite confident of success. 

Even after the fatiguing labors of the 
day he did not think of freeing himself 
from the burden of his responsibility, or 
of driving away care until the morrow. 

He ate his dinner hurriedly, and as soon 
as he had swallowed his coffee began to 
study the case with renewed ardor. 

He had brought with him from his 
office a copy of the prisoner’s deposition ; 
and he went over it again and again, 
seeking some weak spot that might be 
attacked with a probability of success. 

He analyzed each answer, and weighed 
one expression after another. He sought 
some flaw in the armor through which 
he could slip a question, which would 
rend the whole structure of defence in 
pieces, like a train of gunpowder. 

The greater part of the night was spent 
in this work; but that did not prevent 
him from rising long before his usual 
hour. 

By eight o’clock he was dressed, and 
shaved, had arranged his papers, taken 
his cup of chocolate, and was on his way 
to the palace. 

He quite forgot that the impatience, 
which possessed him, was not boiling in 


the veins of others. But he soon discov- 
ered that fact. 

The Palais de Justice was scarcely 
awake when he arrived there. All the 
doors had not been opened. In the corri- 
dors some of the door-keepers and a 
crowd of sleepy office-boys were chang- 
ing their ordinary clothing for their 
official costumes. 

Others, in their shirt-sleeves, were vig- 
orously sweeping, and dusting the va- 
rious rooms. Others were standing at 
the windows of the dressing-room shak- 
ing and brushing the long black robes of 
the lawyers. In the court room some 
clerks were chaffing each other, while 
they awaited the coming of the chief 
clerk, and the opening of the bureaux of 
information. 

M. Segmuller went to consult the 
attorney general; or the procureur impe- 
rial, as he is called in France, but his 
office was empty. No one had, as yet, 
arrived. 

Angry and impatient, he returned to 
his own office ; and with his eyes fastened 
upon the pendulum, caught himself won- 
dering at the slowness of its movements. 

About ten minutes past nine, Goquet, 
the smiling clerk, made his appearance, 
and was greeted with a gruff. “Well ! 
so you have come at last,’’ that left him 
in no doqbt as to the state of his master's 
humor. 

Yet Goquet had come much earlier than 
usual, for his movements also had been 
quickened by curiosity. 

He tried to make some excuse ; but M. 
Segmuller cut it short, with such a curt 
response, that he felt no desire to con- 
tinue the conversation. “Ah!” he 
thought, “it is, very evident that the wind 
is blowing from a bad corner this morn- 
ing.” 

And so, bowing before the storm, he 
philosophically put on his black silk 
sleeves, went to his little table, and pre- 
tended to be absorbed in the task of 
cutting his pens and preparing his paper. 

But although he dared not show it he 
was very much vexed. For the evening 
before, while conversing with his wife, 
he had gained some new ideas in regard 
to the mysterious prisoner ; and he was 
eager to impart them to the judge. 

But no favorable opportunity presented 
itself. M. Segmuller, who was usually 
calmness personilied. and dignity par 
excellence , , was transformed. He paced 
restlessly to and fro, he sat down, he 
sprang up, he gesticulated wildly, and 
seemed unable to be quiet for a moment. 

“The prosecution is evidently making 
no headway,” thought the clerk. “May’s 
prospects are encouraging.” 

At that moment this idea delighted 
him ; he sided with the prisoner, his ran- 
cor was so intense. 

From half-past nine to ten o'clock M. 


74 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Segmuller rang for his messenger at| 
least live times, and each time he asked 
him the same questions. 

“Are you sure that M. Lecoq has not 
been here this morning? Inquire ! If he 
has not been here he must certainly have 
sent some qne, or he must have written 
me.” 

Each time the astonished door-keeper 
replied 

“No one has been here, and there is no 
letter.” 

The judge became more and more angry 
and impatient. 

“It is inconceivable!” he murmured. 
“Here I am upon coals of fire, and that 
man dares to keep me waiting. Where 
can he be?” 

At last he ordered a messenger to go 
and see if he could not find Lecoq some- 
where in the neighborhood ; perhaps in 
some restaurant or coffee-house ; told him 
to go and find him and bring him there 
quickly, very quickly. 

When the man had gone, M. Segmuller 
seemed to recover his composure, in a 
slight degree, at least. 

“We must not lose valuable time,” he 
said to his clerk. “I was to examine the 
Widow Chupin’s son. I had better do so 
immediately. Go and tell them to bring 
him to me. Lecoq left the order at the 
prison.” 

In less than a quarter of an hour Poly te 
entered the room. 

From head to foot, from his glazed cap 
to his gaudy-colored carpet slippers, he 
was indeed the man of the portrait upon 
which poor Toinon, the virtuous, had 
lavished such loving glances. 

But the picture was flattered. The 
photographer could not fix the expression 
of low cunning that was imprinted upon 
the face of the original, nor the impu- 
dence that breathed in his smile, nor the 
mingled cowardice and ferocity of his 
eyes, which always evaded you. Nor 
could the picture portray the unwhole- 
some, livid pallor of his skin, the restless 
opening and shutting of the eyelids, and 
the thin lips tightly drawn over the short, 
sharp teeth. 

It would be difficult for him to astonish 
those who saw him by any act of vio- 
lence. 

For to see him, was to judge and to es- 
timate his worth. 

When he had answered the preliminary 
questions, told the judge that he was 
thirty years of age, and that he had been 
born in Paris, he assumed a pretentious 
attitude and waited. 

But before proceeding to the real mat- 
ter in hand, M. Segmuller wished to re- 
lieve the complacent scoundrel of some 
of his assurance. 

He reminded Polyte, in very forcible 
terms, that the judgment to be rendered 
in the affair in which he was implicated 


[would depend very much upon his be- 
havior and his responses during the pres- 
ent examination. 

Polyte listened -with a nonchalant and 
even ironical air. 

In fact, he cared only the merest trifle 
for the threat. He had made previous 
inquiries and had ascertained that it 
would be impossible to condemn him to 
more than six months’ imprisonment for 
the offence for which he had been arrest- 
ed ; and what did a month more or less 
matter to him? 

The judge, who read this feeling in 
Polyte’s eyes, cut his discourse short. 

“Justice now demands some informa- 
tion from you concerning the habitues of 
your mother’s establishment.” 

“There are a great many of them, 
m’sieur,” responded Polyte, in a coarse, 
harsh voice. 

“Do you know one among them by the 
name of Gustave?” 

“No, m’sieur.” 

To insist would probably awaken sus- 
picion in Polyte’s mind, if he was really 
speaking the truth ; so M. Segmuller con- 
tinued : 

“You must, however, remember La- 
cheneur ?” 

“Lacheneur? It is the first time I have 
ever heard that name.” 

“Take care. The police have means of 
finding out a great many things.” 

The scapegrace did not flinch. 

“I am telling the truth, m’sieur,” he 
insisted. “What interest could I possi- 
bly have in deceiving you?” 

The door opened suddenly, and Toinon, 
his wife, entered with her child in her 
arms. 

On seeing her husband, the poor wo- 
man uttered a cry of joy, and sprang 
towards him. But Polyte, stepping back, 
bestowed upon her a terrible glance that 
rooted her to the spot. 

“It must be my enemy who pretends 
that I know any one named Lacheneur ! 
I would like to kill the person who uttered 
such a falsehood. Yes; kill the per- 
son — and I will never forgive it.” 


CHAPTER XXVH. 

Haying received orders to go in search 
of Lecoq and to bring him back, if he 
succeeded in finding him, M. Segmuller's 
messenger had started on his errand. 

The commission was not at all dis- 
agreeable to him ; it afforded him an ex- 
cuse for quitting his post, and also a very 
pleasant little stroll through the neigh- 
borhood. 

He went to the prefecture first, by the 
longest way, however; but on arriving 
there, he could find no one who had seen 
the young detective. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


75 


He then strolled leisurely through the 
restaurants and through the drinking 
saloons in the vicinity of the Palais de 
Justice, and living through its patronage. 

Being a conscientious commissioner, he 
entered each of these establishments, and 
having recognized several acquaintances, 
he felt compelled to proffer and to accept 
certain courtesies at the rate of fifty cen- 
times per glass. But no Lecoq. 

He was returning in haste, a trifle un- 
easy on account of the length of his ab- 
sence, when a carriage stopped before 
the gateway of the palace. 

He looked up, and — oh, happiness ! 
from this carriage he saw Lecoq descend, 
followed by Father Absinthe and the 
Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law. 

His serenity of mind was instantly re- 
stored ; and it was in a very important 
tone that he delivered the order for 
Lecoq to follow him "without losing a 
minute. 

“Monsieur has asked for you a number 
of times,” said he. “He has been ex- 
tremely impatient, and he is in very bad 
humor ; and you may expect to have your 
head snapped off in the most expeditious 
manner.” * 

Lecoq smiled as he ascended the stab- 
case. Was he not bringing with him the 
most potent of justifications! He was 
thinking of the agreeable surprise he had 
in store for the judge, and he seemed to 
see the sudden brightening of that func- 
tionary’s gloomy face. 

And yet the message delivered by the 
door-keeper, and his urgent appeal that 
Lecoq should not loiter by the way, was 
fated to produce the most unfortunate 
results. 

Expected, as he supposed, and urged 
not to delay, Lecoq saw nothing wrong 
in opening the door of M. Segmuller’s of- 
fice without knocking, and lie obeyed the 
fatal impulse that impelled him to enter 
in advance of the poor woman whose tes- 
timony might be so decisive. 

Stupefaction seized him and held him 
motionless when he saw that the judge 
was not alone, and when he recognized, 
in this witness, wiiom M. Segmuller was 
examining, the original of the portrait, 
Polyte Chupin. 

Instantly he comprehended his mis- 
take, and its consequences. He did his 
best to prevent any communication, any 
interchange of thought betw'een the hus- 
band and wife. 

He sprang towards Toinon, and catch- 
ing her rudely by the arm, he ordered 
her to leave the room on the instant. 

“You cannot remain here,” he cried, 
“come, go!” 

But the poor creature w\as entirely 
overcome, and trembled like a leaf. She 
could see and hear nothing except herj 
husband. To behold again this man 
whom she adored, what happiness! But 


why did he recoil from her? Why did he 
cast such withering glances upon her? 

She tried to speak, to explain; but 
wflfile she stood there frightened and be- 
wildered, Polyte’s harsh condemnation 
pierced her brain like a rifle ball. 

Seeing this, Lecoq seized her about the 
waist, and lifting her as he would a 
feather, he carried her out into the cor- 
ridor. 

The w T hole scene had not lasted more 
than a moment, and M. Segmuller was 
still engaged in framing the order, w'hen 
he found that the door was already closed, 
and that he was again alone w r ith Polyte. 

“Ah, ha !” thought Goquet, in a flut- 
ter of delight, “here is something new.” 

But as these little diversions never 
made him forget his duties as a clerk, he 
leaned towards the judge to ask : 

“Must I take d*»wn the last w r ords that 
were uttered by the witness ?” 

“Certainly,” responded M. Segmuller, 
“and w r ord for word, if you please.” 

He paused ; the door opened again, to 
admit the door-keeper, who timidly, and 
with a rather guilty air, brought in a 
note, and again withdrew. 

This note, scribbled in pencil by Lecoq 
upon a leaf torn from his memorandum 
book, told the judge the name of the 
woman who had just entered his room, 
and told briefly, but clearly, the informa- 
tion that had just been obtained. 

“That boy thinks of everything !” mur- 
mured M. Segmuller. 

The meaning of the scene that had 
taken place before his eyes a moment 
previous w r as now evident. 

He understood the whole. 

He regretted most bitterly this unfor- 
tunate meeting. But whom ought he to 
blame for it? Himself — himself alone; 
his impatience, his lack of caution, w T hich, 
as soon as his messenger had departed, 
had induced him to summon Polyte 
Chupin. 

While he could not doubt the enormous 
influence of this trifling circumstance, he 
would not allow himself to be alanned 
by it, and continued his task of endeav- 
oring to elicit some information from the 
sorry specimen before him. 

“Let us go on,” he said to Polyte. 

The scapegrace gave a careless sign of 
assent. Since his wife had been taken 
from the room he had not moved, and 
w’as apparently sublimely indifferent to 
all that w r as passing around him. 

“Was that your wife who came in just 
now?” demanded M. Segmuller. 

“Yes.” 

“She wished to embrace you, and you 
repulsed her.” 

“I did not repulse her, m’sieur.” 

“You kept her at a distance; if you 
had any affection, you would at least, 
have given a look to your child, which 
she held out to you. Why was it?” 


76 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“It was not a time for sentiment.” 

“You are not telling the truth. You 
simply desired to attract her attention 
while you dictated her deposition.” 

“I— I dictate her deposition ! I do not 
understand you, m’sieur.” 

“Were it not for this supposition, the 
words you uttered would be unintelli- 
gible.” 

“What words?” 

The judge turned to his clerk: 

“Goquet,” said he, “read the last re- 
mark you took down, to the witness.” 

The clerk, in a monotonous voice, 
read : 

“I would like to kill the person who 
dared to say that I knew Lacheneur.” 

u Eh bienj ” insisted M. Segmuller, 
“what do you mean by that?” 

“It is very easy to understand, 
m’sieur.” 

M. Segmuller rose. 

“Enough of this prevaricating! You 
certainly ordered your wife to keep 
silence ; that fact is evident. Why should 
you have done this? and what can she 
tell us? Do you suppose that the police 
are ignorant of your relations with Lach- 
eneur — of your conversation with him 
when he, in a carriage, and in an unfre- 
quented spot, awaited your coming — of 
the hopes of fortune which you based 
upon him ? Be guided by me ; decide to 
confess all, while there is yet time ; do 
not pursue a course which may lead you 
into serious danger. One can be an ac- 
complice in more ways than one.” 

It is certain that Polyte’s impudence 
and indifference had received a very se- 
vere shock. He seemed confounded, and 
hung his head, muttering some unintelli- 
gible response. 

Still, he preserved an obstinate silence ; 
and the judge, who had just employed his 
strongest argument, and in vain, gave up 
in despair. He rang the bell, and or- 
dered the guard to conduct the witness 
back to prison; and to take every precau- 
tion to prevent him from seeing his wife 
again. 

When Polyte had departed, Lecoq re- 
appeared. He was in despair. 

“To think,” he repeated again and 
again, “that I did not draw from this 
woman all that she knew, when it could 
have been done so easily. But I thought 
that you would be waiting for me, mon- 
sieur, so I made haste to bring her here. 
I thought I was acting for the best ” 

“Never mind, the misfortune can be 
repaired.” 

“No, monsieur, no; we shall learn 
nothing more from this poor woman. It 
is impossible to extort a single word 
from her since she has seen her husband. 
She loves him, with a blind and foolish 
adoration; and he has an all-powerful 
influence over her. He has ordered her 


to be silent, and she will be silent ‘even 
unto death ’ ” 

The young man’s fears were well 
grounded. M. Segmuller saw this only 
too well, the instant Toinon, the virtuous, 
again set foot in his office. 

The poor creature seemed nearly heart- 
broken. It was evident that she would 
have given her life to retract the words 
which had escaped her in her attic. 
Polyte's look had made her turn cold with 
horror, and had aroused the most sinister 
apprehensions in her mind. Not under- 
standing his connection with the affair, 
she asked herself if her testimony would 
not be a death-warrant for him. 

So she refused to make any response 
other than “no,” or “I do not know,” 
to questions ; and all that she had pre- 
viously said, she retracted. She swore 
that she was mistaken, that she had been 
misunderstood, that her words had been 
misrepresented. She declared upon the 
most sacred oaths, that she had never be- 
fore heard the name of Lacheneur. 

At last, when they pressed their ques- 
tions too closely, she burst into wild, de- 
spairing sobs, pressing her weeping child 
convulsively to her breast. 

What could one do against this foolish 
obstinacy, which was as unreasoning and 
blind as that of a brute? M. Segmuller 
hesitated. Finally, after a moment’s re- 
flection : 

“You may retire, my good woman,” 
he said, kindly; “but remember that 
your strange silence injures your hus- 
band more than anything you could say.” 

She left the room— or rather she rushed 
wildly away — and the judge and the de- 
tective exchanged glances of dismay and 
consternation. 

“I said so before,” thought Goquet; 
“the prisoner understands what he is 
about. 1 would be willing to bet a hun- 
dred to one on the prisoner.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

In a single word Delamorte Felines 
has defined prosecution. A “struggle,” 
he terms it ; and it is, in reality, a terrible 
struggle between justice, seeking after 
the truth, and crime, endeavoring to con- 
ceal it. 

The judge of instruction, as he is called 
in France, is invested with discretionary 
powers, and is responsible only to the 
law and to his own conscience. 

No one can hamper him, no one can 
give him orders. Administration, police, 
armed force, are all at his disposal. At 
a word from him twenty agents, or a 
hundred, if need be, search Paris, ran- 
sack France, or explore Europe. 

If he suppose that any person can 
throw light upon an obscure point, he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


77 


orders that man to appear in his office ; 
and he must come, if he live a hundred 
leagues away. Such is the position. 

Isolated behind the bars, and probably 
in the solitary cell, the man accused of 
a crime is, as it were, cut off from the 
number of the living. No news from 
without reaches him in the cell, where he 
lives beneath the eye of his keeper. Of 
what is said, of what is passing outside 
these walls, he knows nothing. What 
witnesses have been examined, and what 
they have said, he knows not ; and. in his 
doubt and uncertainty, he again and 
again asks himself to what extent he has 
been compromised, what proofs have 
been collected against him, and what 
grave charges are ready to crush him. 

Such is the position of the prisoner. 
And yet, in spite of the fact that the two 
adversaries are so unequally armed, the 
man in the solitary cell not unfrequently 
conquers. 

If he is sure that he has left behind him 
no proofs of his crime, if he has no antece- 
dents to rise up against him, he can, im- 
pregnable in a defence of absolute de- 
nial, brave all the attacks of justice. 

Such was, at this moment, the situa- 
tion of May, the mysterious murderer. 

M. Segmuller and Lecoq with mingled 
sorrow and anger were forced to admit 
this. 

They had hoped that Polvte Chupin or 
his wife would give them the solution of 
this vexed problem — this hope had been 
disappointed. 

And the identity of the prisoner re- 
mained as problematical as ever. 

“■And yet,” exclaimed the judge vehe- 
mently, “and yet these people know 
something about this matter, and if they 
would ” 

“They will not.” » 

“Why, what motive influences them? 
This is* what is necessary to discover. 
Who will tell us by what dazzling prom- 
ises the silence of a scoundrel like this 
Polyte Chupin has been purchased? Up- 
on what recompense does he count, since 
he is willing to brave real danger by this 
silence?” 

Lecoq did not reply, but his knit brows 
showed that his thoughts were busy. 

“There is one . question which puzzles 
me more than anything else, and if it 
could be answered we should have made 
a long step in advance,” he finally re- 
marked. 

“What is it?” 

“You ask, monsieur, what reward has 
been promised to Chupin. I ask who it 
is that has promised him this reward?” 

“Who has promised it? Evidently the 
accomplice who has beaten us on every 
point.” 

At this homage to the skill and audac- 
ity of his opponent, the young detective 
clenched his hands, and vowed ven- 1 


'geance against the man who had made 
him a prisoner, only an hour before. 

“Certainly,” he replied. “I recognize 
his hand in this. And now, what artifice 
has he used? We understand the method 
by which he succeeded in gaining an 
interview with the Widow Chupin. But 
how has he succeeded in reaching Polyte, 
who is a prisoner, and closely guarded?” 

He did not utter his whole thought, 
but M. Segmuller understood him. and 
seemed intensely surprised, and even a 
trifle indignant, at the young man’s sus- 
picions. 

“What can you mean?” said he. “You 
cannot suppose that one of the employes 
has been corrupted?” 

Lecoq shook his head, with a rather 
equivocal air. 

“I mean nothing,” he replied; “I sus- 
pect no one. Lam merely in pursuit of 
informaticm. Has Chupin been warned 
— yes or no?”/ 

“Yes, of course.” 

“That fact jis admitted then. So I pre- 
sume we must explain it by supposing 
either that there are informers in the 
prison, or that Chupin has been allowed 
to see some wsitor.” 

M. Segmuller was evidently disturbed. 
He seemed to 'be hesitating between two 
opinions ; them suddenly making up his 
mind, he rose, took his hat, and said : 

“I wish to havVthis matter cleared up. 
Come, Monsieur Lecoq.” 

In two minutes (thanks to the dark and 
narrow passage that connects the depot 
with the Palais de Justice) they entered 
the jail. 

Rations had just been served to the 
prisoners, and the head keeper, who had 
been engaged in superintending the dis- 
tribution, was now promenading in the 
court-yard with Gevrol. 

As soon as he saw the judge, he ap- 
proached him with great deference of 
manner. 

“Undoubtedly, sir, you have come 
about the prisoner, May?” 

“Yes.” 

Since it was a question of a prisoner, 
Gevrol thought he might approach with- 
out impropriety. 

“I was just now talking to Inspector 
Gevrol about the prisoner,” pursued the 
keeper, “and I was telling him that I 
had good reason to be satisfied with this 
man’s conduct. It not only has been 
quite unnecessary to place him in the 
strait-jacket, but his mood seems to have 
changed entirely. He has a good appe- 
tite ; he is as gay as a lark, and laughs 
and jests with his keeper.” 

The judge and Lecoq exchanged troub- 
led glances. 

This gayety might be assumed for the 
purpose of carrying out his role as a 
jester and buffoon ; but might it not have 
come from a certainty of defeating his 


78 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


opponents? or, who knows? perhaps, 
from some favorable news received from 
without. 

This last supposition offered itself so 
persistently to M. Segmuller’s mind, that 
he trembled. 

“Are you sure,” he inquired, “that no 
communication from outside can reach 
the inmates of the solitary cells?” 

The worthy keeper seemed to be deeply 
wounded by the implied doubt. His 
subordinates suspected ! — perhaps the 
keeper himself ! He could not help lift- 
ing his hands to Heaven in mute protest 
against such injustice. 

“Am I sure?” he exclaimed. “Then 
you have never visited the solitary cells 
— or the secret cells, as we call them. 
You have no idea, then, of the precau- 
tions that surround them, the triple bolts, 
the grating that shuts out the*, sunlight, 
to say nothing of the guard who walks 
beneath the windows night and day. 
Not even a bird could reach the prisoners 
in those cells.” 

Such a description could not fail to 
reassure the most sceptical. 

“Now that I am easy on that score,” 
said the judge, “I would like some infor- 
mation regarding another prisoner — a 
certain Chupin.” 

“Ah ! I know — a vile scoundrel !” 

“He is, indeed. I would like to know 
if he received an}' - visitor yesterday?” 

“It will be necessary for me to inquire 
of the clerk before I can answer with 
certainty. Wait a moment; here is a 
man who, perhaps, can inform us. He 
is on guard at the entrance. Here, Fer- 
rau, this way !” he called. 

The man hastened to obey the sum- 
mons. 

“Do you know whether the prisoner 
named Chupin was in the reception-room 
yesterday ?” 

“Yes, sir, he was; I conducted him 
there myself.” 

“And who was his visitor?” inquired 
Lecoq, eagerly ; “a large man, was it not, 
very red in the face ” 

“Excuse me, monsieur, the visitor was 
a lady ; his aunt, he told me.” 

An exclamation of surprise escaped the 
lips of the judge and of the detective, 
and together they demanded : 

“What was she like?” 

“Small,” replied the man, “with very 
fair complexion and light hair; she 
seemed to be a very respectable woman.” 

“It must have been one of the fugitives 
who escaped from Widow Chupin’s 
hovel,” exclaimed Lecoq. 

Gevrol laughed loudly. 

“Still that Russian princess.” said he. 

But the judge did not appear to enjoy 
the pleasantry. 

“You forget yourself, monsieur,” he 
said, severely. “You forget that the 


sneers you address to your comrade also 
touch me !” 

The general saw that he had gone too 
far; and while he bestowed one of his 
most venomous glances upon Lecoq, he 
mumbled his excuses to the judge-. 

M. Segmuller did not hear them appar- 
ently. He bowed to the keeper, and 
motioned Lecoq to follow him. 

“Run to the prefecture,” he said as soon 
as they were out of hearing, “ and ascer- 
tain how and under what pretext this 
woman obtained permission to vist Polyte 
Chupin.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Left alone, M. Segmuller returned 
mechanically to his office, guided by 
force .of habit rather than by any volition 
of his own. 

All his faculties were hard at work ; 
and so great was his preoccupation that 
he, who was ordinarily the quintessence 
of politeness, entirely forgot to return the 
salutations which he received on his 
way. 

How had this case until now, been con- 
ducted? By hazard, according to the 
caprice of events. Like a man lost in the 
darkness, he had left his course to 
chance, walking towards anything which, 
in the distance, seemed to him like a 
light. 

To travel in this way is a useless ex- 
penditure of time and strength. He 
admitted this in recognizing the urgent 
and pressing necessity of some definite 
plan of action. 

Since he had not succeeded in capturing 
the city by a sudden attack he was com- 
pelled to resign himself to the methodical 
delays of a regular and protracted siege. 

And he decided to do this at once, for 
he felt that the hours were fleeting all 
too fast. He knew that delay only in- 
creased the uncertainty of success, and 
that the investigation of a crime becomes 
more and more difficult, in proportion as 
one is removed from the time when said 
crime was committed. 

There were some things that might still 
be done. 

Ought he not to confront the murderer, 
the Widow Chupin, and Polyte with the 
bodies of their victims? 

Such horrible encounters are sometimes 
productive of unhoped-for results. 

More than one murderer, when unsus- 
pectedly brought into the presence of his 
victim, had changed color and lost his as- 
surance. 

There were other witnesses whom he 
could examine. Papillon, the coachman ; 
the concierge of the mansion on the Rue 
de Bourgogne, where the two women had 
taken refuge for a moment, a Mme. Mil- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


79 


ner, the mistress of the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg. 

Would it not also he advisable to sum- 
mon, wit 1 the least possible delay, some 
of th^ residents in the vicinity of the 
Poivriere, and some comrades of Polyte, 
as well as the proprietor of the Rainbow, 
where the victims and the murderer had 
passed a portion of the evening. 

Certainly, one had no reason to hope for 
any great enlightenment from any par- 
ticular one of these witnesses ; but each 
one might add his conjectures, express an 
opinion, or be able to throw some light 
on the subject. 

Goquet, the smiling clerk, acting in 
compliance with the orders of the judge, 
had just finished drawing up at least a 
dozen citations, when Lecoq reappeared. 

“Well?” exclaimed the judge, eagerly. 

Really, the question was superfluous. 
The result of his expedition was plainly 
written upon the face of the detective. 

“Nothing — always nothing.” 

“But how can that be? Do they not 
know to whom the permission to visit 
Polyte Chupin was given?” 

“Pardon, monsieur, they know but too 
well. We find only a fresh proof of the 
infernal skill with which the accomplice 
profits by every circumstance. The per- 
mit that was used yesterday was in the 
name of a sister of the Widow Chupin. 
Rose Adelaide Pitard. The card of ad- 
mission was given her more than a week 
ago, in compliance with a request which 
was endorsed by the commissioner of po- 
lice. 

The surprise of the judge was so in- 
tense that it gave to his face an almost 
ludicrous expression. 

“Is this aunt also in the plot?” he mur- 
mured. 

The detective shook his head. 

“I think not,” he answered. “It was 
not she, at all events, who was in the 
prison parlor yesterday. The clerks at 
the prefecture remember the widow's sis- 
ter very well, and gave me a full descrip- 
tion of her. She is a woman over five 
feet in height, very dark-complexioned, 
very wrinkled and weather-beaten in ap- 
pearance, and about sixty years of age. 
The visitor yesterday was small, blonde, 
and apparently not more than forty-five.” 

“If that is* the case,” interrupted M. 
Segmuller, “this visitor must be one of 
our fugitives.” 

“I do not think so.'’ 

“Who do you suppose she was, then?” 

“The mistress of the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg — that clever woman who succeeded 
so w r ell in deceiving me. But she had 
better take care! There are means of 
verifying my suspicions. 

The judge scarcely heard Lecoq’s 
words, so enraged was he at the incon- 
ceivable audacity and marvellous devo- 
tion of these people who risked every- 


thing to preserve the incognito of the 
murderer. 

“But how could the accomplice have 
known of the existence of this permit?” 

“Oh, nothing could be easier, monsieur 
When the Widow Ohupi ana th„ accom- 
plice held their interview at the station- 
house of the Barriere d’ltalie, they both 
realized the necessity of warning Polyte. 
They tried to devise some way of seeing 
him ; the old woman remembered her sis- 
ter's card of admission, and the man 
made some excuse to borrow it.” 

“Such is undoubtedly the case,” said 
M. Segmuller, approvingly. “It will be 
necessary to ascertain, however ” 

Lecoq’s bearing was that of a resolute 
man, whose eager zeal has no need of a 
stimulant. 

“And I will ascertain.” said he, “if 
you, monsieur, will entrust the matter to 
me. No aid to success shall be neglect- 
ed. Before evening I would have two 
spies on the watch— one at the rue de la 
Butte-aux-Cailles, the other at the door 
of the Hotel de Mariembourg. If the ac- 
complice attempted to visit Toinon, or 
Mme. Milner, he should be arrested. It 
would be our turn then !” 

But • there was no time to waste in 
words and in idle boastings. He checked 
himself, and took his hat preparatory to 
departure. 

“Now,” said he, “I must ask Monsieur 
le Juge for my liberty; if he has any 
orders to give me,- he will find a trusty 
messenger in the corridor, Father Ab- 
sinthe, one of my colleagues. I wish to 
discover some fact in regard to two of 
our most important articles of convic- 
tion, Lacheneur’s letter and the ear-ring.” 

“Go, then,” responded M. Segmuller, 
“and good luck to you!” 

Good luck ! The detective, indeed, 
looked for it. If, up to the present mo- 
ment, he had taken his successive defeats 
good-humoredly, it was because he be- 
lieved that he had a talisman in his pocket 
which would insure him victory at last. 

“I shall be very stupid if 1 am not cap- 
able of discovering the owner of an arti- 
cle of such great value!” he said, refer- 
ring to the diamond. “And when we 
find the owner, we discover, at the same 
time, the identity of our mysterious pris- 
oner !” 

The first step to be taken was to ascer- 
tain in what shop this ornament had been 
purchased. To go from jeweler to jew- 
eler, asking: “Is this your work?” would 
be a tedious process. 

Fortunately, Lecoq knew a man who 
would be willing to give him all the in- 
formation in his power. 

This man was an ola Hollander, named 
Van Numen, who, where jewelry or 
precious stones were concerned, was 
without a rival in Paris. 

He was employed in the prefecture f in 


80 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the capacity of an expert in such mat- 
ters. He was considered rich; but he 
was far more wealthy than people sup- 
posed. Shabby as he always was in ap- 
pearance, he had a passion for diamonds. 
He always had some of them about his 
person, in a little box, which he drew 
out of his pocket a dozen times an hour, 
as a snuff-taker brings out his snuff-box. 

This worthy man greeted Lecoq very 
affably. He put on his glasses, exam- 
ined the jewel with a grimace of satisfac- 
tion, and, in the tone of an oracle, said : 

“That stone is worth eight thousand 
francs, and it was set by Doisty, on the 
Rue de la Paix.” 

Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered 
the establishment of this celebrated 
jeweler. 

Van Numen was not mistaken. Doisty 
immediately recognized the ornament, 
which had, indeed, come from his store. 
But to whom had he sold it ? He could not 
recollect, for it had passed out of his 
hands three or four years before. 

“But w'ait a moment,” lie added, U I 
will ask my wife, who has an incom- 
parable memory.” 

Mme. Doisty deserved this eulogium. 
A single glance at the jewel enabled her 
to saj r that she had seen this ear-ring 
before, and that the pair had been pur- 
chased from them by the Marquise 
d’Arlange. 

“You must recollect.” she added, 
turning to her husband, “that the 
marquise paid us only nine thousand 
francs on account, and that we had all 
the trouble in the world in collecting the 
remainder.” 

Her husband did remember this circum- 
stance. 

“Now,” said the detective, “I would 
like the address of this marquise.” 

“She lives in the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main,” responded Mme. Doisty, “near 
the Esplanade des Invalides.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

While in the presence of the jeweler, 
Lecoq had refrained from any demon- 
stration of satisfaction. 

But when he had left the store, he 
evinced such delirious joy that the 
amazed passers-by wondered if the man 
were not mad. He did not walk, he fair- 
ly danced over the stones, gesticulating 
all the while in the most ridiculous fash- 
ion, as he addressed this triumphant mon- 
ologue to the empty air : 

“At last,” said he, “this affair emerges 
from the mystery that has enshrouded it. 
At last I reach the veritable actors in the 
drama, these exalted personages whom I 
had suspected. Ah ! Gevrol, illustrious 
General ! you wished a Russian princess, 


but you will be obliged to content your- 
self with a simple marquise.” 

But this species of vertigo gradually 
disappeared. His good sense re-asserted 
itself, and the young man felt that he 
would have need of all his coolness, all 
his penetration, and all his sagacity to 
bring this expedition to a successful 
termination. 

What course should he pursue, on en- 
tering the presence of the marquise, in 
order to draw a full confession from her, 
and to obtain all the details of the mur- 
der, as well as the murderer’s name? 

“It will be best to threaten her, to 
frighten her into confession, that will be 
the best way. If I give her time for re- 
flection, I shall learn nothing.” 

He paused in his cogitations, for he 
had reached the abode of the Marquise 
d’Arlange — a charming house, surrounded 
by a garden; and before entering the 
mansion, he deemed it advisable to learn 
something of its interior and of its in- 
mates. 

“It is here, then,” he murmured, that 
I shall find the solution of the enigma ! 
Here behind those rich curtains crouches 
the frightened fugitive of the other night. 
For what an agony of fear must torture 
her since she has discovered the loss of 
the jewel!” 

For more than an hour sheltered be- 
neath a neighboring porte-cochere , Lecoq 
stood watching the house. He wished to 
see the face of some inmate of the man- 
sion. But his time was lost. Not a face 
showed itself at the windows, not a valet 
traversed the court. 

At last, losing patience, he determined 
to make some inquiries in the neighbor- 
hood. 

He could not take a decisive step with- 
out having some knowledge of the people 
he was to encounter. He was wondering 
where he could obtain the desired infor- 
mation, when he perceived, on the op- 
posite side of the street, a wine merchant 
smoking on the pavement in front of his 
shop. 

He approached him, and pretending that 
he had forgotten an address, politely in- 
quired which house was the abode of the 
Marquise d'Arlange. 

Without a word, without even conde- 
scending to remove his pipe from his 
mouth, the man pointed to the house. 

But there was a way of rendering him 
communicative, and that was to enter his 
establishment, call for something to 
drink, and invite the proprietor to drink 
with him 

This the young man did. and the sight 
of two well-filled glasses unbound, as by 
a miracle, th tongue of the worthy 
shop-keeper 

One could not have found a better man 
to interrogate, as he had been established 
in that quarter for ten years, and was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


81 


honored by the patronage of most of the 
residents. 

“I pity you if you are going to the 
house of the marquise to collect a bill,” 
he remarked to Lecoq. “You will have 
plenty of time to learn the way to the 
house before you see the color of your 
money. You will only be another of the 
many creditors who never let that bell 
rest.” 

“The devil! Is she so poor as all 
that?” 

“Poor ! Every one knows that she has 
an income of twenty thousand livres, 
without counting this house. Bftt when 
one spends double one’s income every 
year, you know ” 

He stopped short, to call Lecoq‘s at- 
tention to two ladies who were passing — 
one, rather more than forty years of age, 
dressed in black ; the other, very young, 
and still clothed in the garb of a school- 
girl. 

“And that,” he added, “is the mar- 
quise’s grand-daughter, Mile. Claire, at- 
tended by her governess, Mile. Smith.” 

Lecoq' s head whirled. 

“Her grand-daughter?’ he stammered. 

“Yes — the daughter of her deceased 
son, if you like that any better.” 

“How old is the marquise, then?” 

“At least sixty; but one would never 
suspect it. She is one of those persons 
who will live a hundred years, like trees. 
And what an old wretch she is! She 
would think no more of knocking me 
over the head than I would of emptying 
this glass of wine ” 

“Pardon,” interrupted Lecoq, “but 
does she live alone in that great house?” 

“Yes — that is — with only her grand- 
daughter, the governess, and two ser- 
vants. But what is the matter with 
you?” 

It was not strange that he asked this 
question, for Lecoq had turned as white 
as his shirt. The magic edifice of his 
hopes had crumbled beneath the weight 
of this man’s words as completely as if 
it were a frail card-house constructed by 
some child. 

“Nothing — nothing at all,” he re- 
sponded in an uncertain voice. 

But he could not endure this torture of 
uncertainty any longer. He went to the 
house and rang the bell. 

The servant who came to open the 
door examined him attentively, then re- 
plied, that madame la marquise was in 
the country. 

Evidently he did him the honor of 
taking him for some creditor. 

But he insisted so adroitly, he gave him 
to understand so explicitly that' he did 
not come to collect money, he spoke so 
earnestly of urgent business, that the 
man finally admitted him to the vesti- 
bule, telling him that he would go and 
ascertain if madame had really gone out. I 

G 


She was at home. An instant after the 
valet returned to tell Lecoq to follow 
him ; and after passing a large and mag- 
nificently furnished drawing-room, he 
conducted him into a charming boudoir, 
hung with rose-color. 

There, in a large reclining chair by the 
fire-place, sat an old woman, large, bony, 
and terrible of aspect, loaded with orna- 
ments and with paint. She was engaged 
in knitting a stripe of green wool. 

She turned towards the visitor just 
enough to show him the rouge on one 
cheek ; then, as he seemed rather fright- 
ened — a fact flattering to her vanity — 
she spoke to him quite affably. 

“Ah, well! young man; what brings 
you here?” 

Lecoq was not frightened, but he was 
intensely disappointed to see that Mine. 
d’Arlange could not be one of the women 
who had visited the Widow Chupin's 
saloon on that memorable night. 

There was nothing about her appear- 
ance that corresponded in the least with 
the description given by Papillon. 

Then the young man remembered the 
small foot-prints left in the snow by the 
two fugitives. The foot of this marquise, 
which showed itself below the bottom of 
her dress, was truly colossal in size. 

“Well! are you dumb?” inquired the 
old lady, raising her voice. 

Without making a direct response, Le- 
coq drew from his pocket the precious 
ear-ring, and placing it upon the table 
beside her, he said : 

“I bring you this article which I have 
found, and which, I am told, belongs to 
you.” 

Madame d’Arlange laid down her knit- 
ting to examine the jewel. 

“It is true,” she said, after a moment, 
“that this ornament formerly belonged 
to me. It was a fancy that I had. about 
four years ago, and it cost me dear — at 
least twenty thousand francs. Ah ! 
Doisty, the man who sold me these dia- 
monds, must make a handsome living. 
But I had a grand-daughter to educate ! 
Pressing need of money compelled me 
to sell them.” 

“To whom?” inquired Lecoq, eagerly. 

“Eh!” exclaimed the lady, evidently 
shocked at his audacity, “you are very 
curious, upon my word !” 

“Excuse me, madame, but I am so 
anxious to find the owner of this valuable 
ornament.” 

Madame d’Arlange regarded her visitor 
with an air of mingled curiosity and 
surprise. 

“Such honesty !” said she. “Oh, oh! 

, And, of course, you do not hope for a sou 
by way of reward ” 

“Madame !” 

“Good, good ! There is not the least 
need for you to turn as red as a poppy, 
young man. I sold these diamonds to a 


82 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


great German lady — for the nobility in 
Austria have some money left — to the 
Baroness de Watchau.” 

“And where does this lady live?” 

“At the Pere la Chaise, probably, since 
she died about a year ago. These women of 
the present day — a turn in the waltz, and 
a current of air, and it is all over with 
them! In my day, after each galop, 
young girls swallowed a great glass of 
sweetened wine, and sat down between 
two doors. And we did very well, as you 
see.” 

“But, madame, ” insisted Lecoq, “the 
Baron de Watchau must have left heirs — 
a husband, children ” 

“No one but a brother, who holds a 
court position at Vienna ; and who could 
not leave even to attend the funeral. He 
sent orders that all his sister’s personal 
property should be sold — not even ex- 
cepting her wardrobe — and the money 
gent to him.” 

Lecoq could not repress an exclamation 
of disappointment. 

“How unfortunate !” he murmured. 

“Why?” asked the old lady. “Under 
these circumstances, the diamonds will 
probably remain in your hands, and I am 
rejoiced at it ; it will be a just recompense 
for your honesty.” 

If fate, to all Lecoq's other afflictions, 
had determined to add that of irony, his 
cup of sorrow would, indeed, be full. 
The Marquise d’Arlange inflicted upon 
him the most exquisite torture when with 
every appearance of sincerity, she ex- 
pressed a wish that he might never find 
the lady who had lost this costly jewel. 

To cry out, to give vent to his anger, 
to reproach this old woman for her stu- 
pidity would have afforded him ineffable 
consolation. But in that case, what 
would become of his role of honest young 
man? 

He forced his lips to display a smile; 
he even stammered an acknowledgement 
of her goodness. Then, as if he had no 
more to expect, he bowed low, and with- 
drew, overwhelmed by this new misfor- 
tune. 

Owing to some strange fatality, or to 
the marvelous skill of his adversaries, 
he had seen all the threads upon which 
he had relied to guide him out of this 
labyrinth, break in liis hands. 

Was he the dupe of some new comedy? 
This was not probable. 

If the murderer’s accomplice had taken 
the jeweler, Doisty, into his confidence, 
he would have told him to reply to any 
inquiries by saying that he did not know 
to whom the diamonds had been sold, or; 
that it had not come from his establish- 
ment. 

But this complication of circumstances 
proved Doisty’s sincerity at least. 

Then the young man had other reasons 
for not doubting the truth of the asser-l 


tions made by the marquise. A peculiar 
look, which he had detected between the 
jeweler and his wife, was a sufficient au- 
thentication. 

This glance said very plainly that, in 
their opinion, the marquise, in purchas- 
ing the diamonds, had engaged in a little 
speculation, more common than people 
suppose among women of the world. 
She had bought on credit, to sell at a 
loss, profiting momentarily by the differ- 
ence between the sum she had paid on 
account and the price she received for 
the jewels. 

Lecocf was resolved to fathom the mys- 
tery that surrounded the ornament ; and 
with this object in view, he returned to 
Doisty’s establishment, and, by means 
of a plausible pretext, succeeded in gain- 
ing a sight of the books in which the pro- 
prietor recorded his sales. 

On the year and the month that Mme. 
Doisty had mentioned, the sale of these 
ear-rings had been recorded, not only 
upon the day-book, but upon the ledger. 
The nine thousand francs paid by Mme. 
d’Arlange at long intervals were also duly 
recorded. 

How Mme. Milner might inscribe a 
false entry upon her register, one could 
easily understand. But it was absurd 
to suppose that the jeweler had falsified 
all his accounts for four years. 

The facts, therefore, were indisputable ; 
still the young detective was not satis- 
fied. 

He hurried to the Faubourg-Saint- 
Honore, to the house which the Baroness 
de Watchau had occupied, and there he 
found a good-natured concierge, who in- 
formed him that after the decease of that 
poor lady, her furniture and her personal 
property had been taken to an establish- 
ment on the Rue Drouot. “And the sale 
was under the charge of M. Petit,” added 
the obliging concierge. 

Without losing a minute ; Lecoq ran 
to the establishment of this auctioneer, 
who made a specialty of rare collections 
of bric-a-brac. 

M. Petit remembered the “Watchau 
sale” very well ; it had made quite a sen- 
sation at the time, and he soon found a 
long catalogue of the articles sold among 
his papers. 

Many jewels were mentioned, with the 
sum paid, and the names of the parties 
purchasing; but there was not the slight- 
est allusion to the accursed ear-rings. 

Lecoq drew out the diamond which he 
had in his pocket. The auctioneer could 
not remember that he had ever seen it ; 
but this was no evidence to the contrary 
—so many articles passed through his 
hands ! 

But this much he could declare upon 
oath ; that the brother of the baroness, 
her heir, had received nothing— not so 
much as a pin’s worth of his sister’s 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


S3 


effects; and that he had been in a great 
hurry to receive the proceeds, which 
amounted to the very pleasant sum of 
one hundred and sixty-seven thousand 
five hundred and thirty francs, after all 
expenses had been deducted. 

u So everything that this lady possessed 
was sold?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Everything.” 

“And what is the name of this brother?” 

“Watchau, also. The baroness had 
probably married one of her relatives. 
This brother, until last year, occupied a 
very prominent diplomatic position. He 
resides at Berlin now, I think.” 

Certainly this information would not 
seem to indicate that these witnesses had 
been tampered with ; and yet Lecoq was 
not satisfied. 

“It is very strange,” he thought, on 
regaining his lodgings, “that to which 
ever side I turn, in this affair, I find Ger- 
many. The murderer comes from Leipsic, 
Madame Milner must be a Bavarian, and 
now here is an Austrian baroness.” 

It was too late to make any further 
inquiries that evening, and Lecoq went 
to bed ; but the next morning, at an early 
hour, he resumed his investigations with 
fresh ardor. 

Now, there seemed to be only one 
chance of success left : the letter signed 
by Lacheneur, which had been found in 
the pocket of the murdered soldier. 

This letter, judging from the half- 
effaced heading, must have been written 
in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. 

To discover in which cafe would be 
only child’s play. 

The fourth restaurant-keeper to whom 
Lecoq exhibited this letter recognized 
the paper as his. 

But neither he, nor his wife, nor the 
young lady at the desk, nor the waiters, 
nor any of the guests present at the time, 
had ever in their lives heard the three 
syllables of this name, Lacheneur. 

What w r as he to do now? Was the 
case entirely hopeless? Not yet. 

Had not the dying soldier declared that 
this Lacheneur was an old comedian? 

Seizing upon this frail clue, as a drown- 
ing man clutches at the merest fragment 
of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his 
steps in another direction, and hurried 
from theatre to theatre, asking every one, 
from the porters to the managers : 

“Do you not know an actor named 
Lacheneur ?” 


This was not a very graphic description, 
however. Besides, it was rather doubt- 
ful what a woman like the wife of Poljde 
Chupin meant by the word “respectable.” 
Did she apply it to the man’s age, to his 
personal appearance, or to his apparent 
fortune.” 

Sometimes they inquired : 

“What roles does your comedian play?” 

And the young man, in his ignorance, 
could make no reply ; but this much he 
could have said with truth, that this 
Lacheneur was playing a role now that 
made him, Lecoq, wild with despair. 

He next had recourse to a mode of 
investigation which is generally the last 
resort of the police, but which is gen- 
erally successful, because it is so sensi- 
ble and simple. 

He determined to examine all the books 
in which the law compels the proprietors 
of hotels and lodging houses to keep a 
record of their guests. 

Rising long before daybreak, and going 
to bed late at night, he spent all his time 
in visiting the hotels, furnished houses, 
and lodgings in Paris. 

Vain search ! Not once did he find the 
name of Lacheneur that haunted his 
brain. Was there really such a name?” 
Was it not a pseudonym, invented for 
convenience ? He had not found it even 
in the Almanack Botlin , where one finds 
all the most singular and absurd names 
in France — those which are formed of 
the most fantastic mingling of syllables. 

But nothing could daunt him or turn 
him from the almost impossible task to 
which he had devoted himself. His 
obstinacy amounted well-nigh to mon- 
omania. 

He was no longer subject to occasional 
out-bursts of anger, which were quickly 
repressed ; he lived in a state of constant 
exasperation, which impaired the clear- 
ness of his mind not a little. 

No more theories, subtle reasoning, 
and ingenious deductions. He pursued 
his search, without method, without 
order, and much as Father Absinthe 
might have done when under the influ- 
ence of alcohol. 

Perhaps he had come to rely less upon 
his own shrewdness than upon chance 
to drive away the shadows which he di- 
vined, which he felt, which he breathed. 


Everywhere he met with the same 
response, not unfrequently enlivened by 
rough jokes. And very often those whom 
he interrogated inquired : 

“What sort of a looking man is your 
artist?” 

What could he reply? All his 
responses were necessarily limited to 
that phrase uttered by Toinon : “I thought 
him a very respectable-looking man ” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

If one throws a heavy stone into a 
lake it produces a very considerable com- 
motion, and the whole mass of water is 
agitated. But the great movement lasts 
only for a moment ; the waves diminish 
in violence in proportion as the circles 
I enlarge, the surface regains its smooth- 


84 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


ness, and soon no trace remains of the 
stone, now buried in the depths below. 

So it is with events that occur in our 
daily life, however momentous they may 
appear. It seems as if their impression 
would endure for years — nonsense •! Time 
closes over them more quickly than the 
water of the lake ; and more rapidly than 
the stone, they sink into the depths of the 
past. 

At the end of a fortnight, the frightful 
crime committed in the Widow Chupin's 
saloon — the triple murder which had 
made all Paris shudder, with which 
all the papers had been full, was for- 
gotten as entirely as any commonplace 
assassination in the reign of Charlemagne. 

Only at the Palais de Justice, at the 
Prefecture, and at the prison, was it re- 
membered. 

The efforts of M. Segmuller — and 
Heaven knows that he had spared none 
— had met with no better success than 
those of Lecoq. 

Close interrogations, skilfully managed 
examinations, sharp questions, insinua- 
tions, menaces, promises, all spent them- 
selves in vain against that invincible 
force — the strongest man has at his dis- 
posal — the force of absolute denial. 

One and the same spirit seemed to ani- 
mate the Widow Cliupin, Polyte, Toinon, 
the virtuous, and Mine. Milner, the mis- 
tress of the Hotel de Mariembourg. 

Their depositions proved that they were 
all in league with the accomplice ; and 
that they all acted in obedience to the 
same policy. But what did this knowl- 
edge avail ! 

The attitude of these witnesses never 
varied ! It might happen, sometimes, that 
their looks gave the lie to their denials ; 
but one could read in their eyes their un- 
shaken determination to conceal the 
truth. 

There were moments when the judge, 
overpowered by a sense of the insuffi- 
ciency of purely moral weapons, almost 
regretted the overthrow of the Inquisi- 
tion. 

Yes, in the presence of these allega- 
tions, whose impudence almost amounted 
to insult, he no longer wondered at the 
‘barbarities practiced by the judges of the 
Middle ages — the rack which broke the 
muscles of its victims, the red-hot pincers, 

• and all those horrible tortures which tore 
out the truth with the flesh itself. 

The manner of the murderer was unal- 
tered, or, if it were, it was only because 
he played his part with greater perfection 
each day, like a man who has become 
accustomed to strange clothing, and who 
is no longer made uncomfortable by it. 

His assurance in the presence of the 
judge had increased, as if he were more 
sure of himself, and as if he had in some 
way learned that the prosecution had 
made no progress whatever. 


During one of his later examinations, 
he had ventured to say, with something 
very like irony. 

“Why do you keep me so long in the se- 
cret cells. Monsieur le Juge? Am I never 
to be set at liberty, or sent to the court of 
assizes? Am I to suffer much longer on 
account of the idea that has taken pos- 
session of you (how, I cannot tell), that 
I am a great personage?” 

“I shall keep you until you have con- 
fessed,” M. Segmuller had responded : 

“Confessed what?” 

“Oh ! you know very well.” 

This strange man had then shrugged 
his shoulders, and in that half-despond- 
ent, half-mocking tone which was habit- 
ual to him, he had responded ! 

“In that case, there is no hope of my 
ever leaving this accursed prison !” 

It was by reason of this conviction, un- 
doubtedly, that he seemed to be making 
preparations for an indefinite stay. 

He had succeeded in obtaining a por- 
tion of the contents of his trunk ; and he 
manifested an almost childish joy in once 
more entering into possession of his prop- 
erty. 

Thanks to the money which had been 
found upon his person and deposited 
with the clerk, he was able to procure 
many little luxuries, which are never 
denied prisoners who have not yet been 
tried for whatever may be the charges 
against them ; they have a right to be 
considered innocent until the jury has 
decided to the contrary. 

To pass away the time, he had asked 
for a volume of Beranger’s poems ; and 
as his request had been granted, he spent 
most of the day in learning the songs by 
heart, and in singing them, in a loud 
voice, and with considerable taste. 

He pretended that he was cultivating a 
talent which would be useful to linn 
when he was again at liberty. 

For he had no doubt of his acquittal ; 
at least, so he declared. 

He was anxious about the date of his 
trial; but was not in the least anxious 
about the result. 

He appeared despondent only when he 
spoke of his profession. He pined for 
the stage. He almost w'ept when he 
thought of his fantastic, many-colored 
costumes, of his audience, and of his sal- 
lies of wit, accompanied by bursts of 
noisy music. 

In his demeanor he had become more 
frank, more communicative, more sub- 
missive ; in short, a better fellow 

It was with marked empressement that 
he embraced every opportunity to babble 
about his past. He liked to recount his 
adventures during his roving life with M. 
Simpson, the showman. He had, of 
course, traveled a great deal ; and he re- 
membered all he had seen, and possessed 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


85 


an inexhaustible fund of amusing stories, 
with which he entertained his keepers. 

And every word, and even his slightest 
action, was characterized by such natur- 
alness, that the employes of the prison 
no longer doubted the truth of his asser- 
tions. 

The head-keeper was more difficult to 
convince. 

lie had declared that this pretended 
buffoon must be a dangerous criminal 
who had escaped from the galleys, and 
who was for this reason determined to 
conceal his antecedents. Believing this, 
he had left no means untried to prove it. 

For more than a fortnight May was 
submitted to the scrutiny of members of 
the police-force and detectives, public 
and private. 

Not one of them recognized him. His 
photograph had been sent to all the pris- 
ons and police headquarters throughout 
the empire ; but not one of the officials 
remembered May’s features. 

Other circumstances occurred, each of 
which had its influence, and they all 
spoke in favor of the prisoner. 

The second bureau of the Prefecture 
found positive traces of the existence of 
a foreign artist, named Tringlot, who 
was probably the man referred to in 
May’s story. This Tringlot had been 
dead several years. 

Moreover, inquiries •which had been 
made in Germany, revealed the fact that 
a certain Monsieur Simpson was very 
well known in that country, having 
achieved great renown as a circus mana- 
ger. 

Before so many proofs, the headkeep- 
er was forced to yield, and he openly 
confessed that he had been mistaken. 

“The prisoner, May,” he wrote to the 
judge, “is really and truly what he pre- 
tends to be. There can be no further 
doubt on the subject.” 

This was done at the suggestion of 
Gevrol. 

So M. Segmuller and Lecoq remained 
alone in their opinion. 

It is true that their opinion w r as w'orthy, 
at least, of consideration, since they 
alone knew all the details of the investi- 
gation which had been conducted w T ith 
strict secrecy. 

But that mattered little. To struggle 
on against all the world is always un- 
pleasant, and not a little dangerous, even 
if one is a thousand times right. 

The “May affair” had become notorious 
among the members of the police-force ; 
and Lecoq was assailed by rough jokes 
whenever he appeared at the Prefecture. 
Nor did the judge escape entirely. 

More than one colleague on meeting 
him in the corridor, inquired, with a 
smile, what he had done with his Gaspard 
Hauser, w ith his man in the Iron Mask, 
with his mysterious mountebank. 


Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq w T ere af- 
flicted w ith the angry impatience every 
man feels when he is absolutely certain 
that he is right, but has no means of 
proving it, 

They both lost their appetites; they 
grew thin and haggard. 

“ Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the judge, 
sometimes; “why did Escorval fall! 
Had it not been for his accursed mishap, 
he would have been obliged to endure 
these perplexities, and I— I should be en- 
joying myself like other people.” 

“And I thought myself so shrewd!” 
murmured the young detective. 

But the idea of yielding never once 
occurred to them. Although their tem- 
peraments w ere diametrically opposed to 
each other, both men had sworn to solve 
this tantalizing enigma. 

Lecoq, indeed, had resolved to re- 
nounce all other claims upon his time, 
and to devote himself entirely to tire 
study of this case. 

“Henceforth,” he said to M. Segmul- 
ler, “I also constitute myself a prisoner; 
and although he will not see me, I shall 
not lose sight of him !” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Between the cell occupied by May and 
the roof the prison w r as a loft, the ceiling 
of which was so low, that a man of 
average height could not stand upright 
in the room. A few straggling rays of 
sunlight peering through the interstices 
of the wall, relieved the dense gloom but 
slightly. 

In this inattractive abode, Lecoq, one 
fine morning, established himself. 

It w~as at the hour when the prisoner 
was taking his daily w r alk, under the sur- 
veillance of two keepers, and the zealous 
detective could, wdthout restraint, pro- 
ceed to his work of installalion. 

Armed with a pickaxe he removed two 
or three stones from the floor, making a 
small aperture, and then set himse.f at 
work to make another opening through 
the timbers below. 

The hole w hich he made was in the 
form of a tunnel. Very large at the top, 
it had dwindled to an opening not more 
than two-thirds of an inch in diameter 
when it pierced the ceiling of the cell 
below. 

The place where this aperture w r as 
made had been chosen so skilfully in ad- 
vance that it w'as in the midst of some 
stains and patches of mold ; hence it was 
impossible for the prisoner to detect it 
from below. 

While Lecoq w r as at wmrk, the keeper 
of the prison and Gevrol. wdio had in- 
sisted upon accompanying him, appeared 


86 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


upon the threshold of the loft, laughing 
and sneering. 

“So this is to he your observatory, 
Monsieur Lecoq?” remarked Gevrol. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“You will not be very comfortable 
here.” 

“I shall be less uncomfortable than 
you suppose. J have brought a large 
blanket, and I shall stretch myself out 
upon the floor and sleep here. 

“So that, night and day, you will have 
your eye on the prisoner'?” 

“Yes, night and day. 

“Without giving yourself time to eat 
or drink?” inquired Gevrol. 

“Pardon ! Father Absinthe will bring 
me my meals, execute any commissions 1 
may have, and take my place on guard, 
if necessary.” 

The jealous General laughed loudly; 
but the laugh was a trifle constrained. 

“Well, I pity you,” he said. 

“Very possibly.” 

“Do you know what you will look 
like, with your eye glued to that hole?” 

“Say it! You need be under no con- 
straint.” 

“Ah, well ! you will look like one of 
those silly naturalists who put all sorts 
of little insects under a magnifying glass, 
and spend their lives in watching them.” 

Lecoq had finished his work ; he rose 
from the floor. 

“No comparison could be more just. 
General,” he replied. “You have 
guessed it. To these naturalists, of 
whom you speak so slightingly, I owe 
the idea I am about putting into execu- 
tion. By dint of studying these little 
creatures — as you say — under a micros- 
cope, these patient and gifted men are 
enabled to discover the habits and the 
instincts of the insect world. Very well. 
What they can do with an insect, I will 
do Avith a man !” 

“Oh ho!” said the keeper, consider- 
ably astonished. 

“ Yes ; this is my plan, monsieur,” con- 
tinued Lecoq. “I wish to learn this pris- 
oner's secret; I will have it. I have 
sworn it, and I shall have it, because, 
however strong his courage may be, he 
will have his moments of weakness, and 
then I shall be there. I shall be there, if 
his will fails him, if believing himself 
alone he lets his mask fall for a moment, 
if he forgets his part for an instant, if 
some indiscreet word escapes him in his 
slumber, if despair elicits a groan, a ges- 
ture, a look — I shall be there.” 

The implacable resolution that vibrated 
in the young man’s voice made a deep 
impression upon the keeper. 

For an instant he was a believer in Le- 
coq’s theory; and he was impressed by 
the strangeness of this conflict between 
a prisoner, determined to preserve the 
secret of his personality, and the prose- 


cution, equally determined to wrest It 
from him. 

“Upon my word! my boy, you are 
not wanting in courage and energy.” 

“Although it is misdirected,” growled 
Gevrol. 

He made this remark very slowly and 
deliberately; but in his secret soul he 
was by no means convinced of its truth. 
Faith is contagious, and he was troubled 
in spite of himself by Lecoq’ s impertur- 
bable assurance. 

What if this debutant in his profession 
should be right, and he, Gevrol, the 
oracle of the prefecture, wrong! What 
shame and ridicule would be his portion ! 

But once again he inwardly swore that 
this inexperienced man could be no match 
for an old veteran, and he added : 

“The chief of police must have more 
money than he knows what to do with, 
to pay two men for such a nonsensical 
job as this.” 

Lecoq did not reply to this slighting 
remark. For more than a fortnight the 
General had improved every opportunity 
of making himself disagreeable so well, 
that the young man doubted his power 
to control his temper if the discussion 
were continued. 

It would be better to keep silence, and 
to work and "wait for success. To suc- 
ceed ! that would be revenge enough ! 

Moreover, he was impatient to see these 
unwelcome visitors depart. Perhaps he 
believed that Gevrol was quite capable 
of attracting the prisoner’s attention by 
some unusual sound. 

As soon as they went away, Lecoq 
hastily spread his blanket, and stretched 
himself out upon it in such a position 
that he could alternately apply his eye 
and his ear to the aperture. 

In this position he had an admirable 
view of the cell below. He could see 
the door, the bed, the table, the chair ; 
only the small space near the window, 
and the window itself, were beyond his 
range of observation. 

He had scarcely completed his survey, 
when he heard the bolts rattle : the pris- 
oner was returning from his walk. 

He seemed in excellent spirits, and was 
just completing what was, undoubtedly, 
a very interesting story, since the keeper 
lingered for a moment to hear the con- 
clusion. Lecoq was delighted with the 
success of his experiment. He could 
hear as easily as he could see. Each 
sound reached his ear distinctly ; he had 
not lost a single word of the recital, 
which was amusing, but rather coarse. 

The guard departed. May walked 
across his cell a few times, then took up 
ills volume of “Beranger,” and for an 
hour or more seemed completely en- 
grossed in its contents. Finally, lie threw 
himself down upon the bed. 

He remained there until the hour o< 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


87 


his evening repast, when he rose and ate 
with an excellent appetite. Then he re- 
sumed the study of his book, and did not 
go to bed until the lights were extin- 
guished. 

Lecoq knew that during the night his 
eyes would not serve him, but, for all 
that, he hoped that some tell-tale word 
would escape the prisoner. 

In this expectation he was disap- 
pointed. May tossed restlessly upon liis 
pallet; he sighed, and one might have 
thought that he was sobbing, but not a 
syllable escaped his lips. 

He remained in bed until very late the 
next morning ; but on hearing the bell 
sound the hour of breakfast, eleven 
o'clock, he sprang from his couch with 
a bound, and after capering about his 
cell for a few moments, he began to sing, 
in a loud and cheerful voice, the old 
ditty : 

“Diogene 

Sous ton Tnantenu 

Libre et content, je ris, je bois, sans gene ” 

He did not cease his singing until the 
keeper entered his cell to bring him his 
breakfast. 

The day differed in no respect from the 
one that had preceded it, nor did the 
night. The same might be said of the 
next day and of the days which followed 
it. 

To sing, to eat, to sleep, to care for his 
hands and his nails — such was the life of 
the so-called buffoon. His manner, 
which never varied, was that of a natur- 
ally cheerful man, terribly bored. 

Such was the perfection of this enig- 
matical person’s acting, that Lecoq, after 
six days and nights of constant surveil- 
lance, had detected nothing decisive, nor 
even surprising. . 

Yet he did not despair. He had no- 
ticed that, every morning, while the em- 
ployes of the prison were busy in dis- 
tributing the food of the prisoners, this 
man repeated his song of Diogenes. 

‘‘Evidently this song is a signal,” Le- 
coq said to himself. “What is going on 
there by the window that I cannot see? 
I will know to-morrow.” 

The following morning he arranged 
that May should be taken on his morning 
walk at half-past ten o'clock, and he then 
insisted that the keeper should accom- 
pany him to the prisoner’s cell. 

That worthy functionary was not very 
well pleased with this change in the usual 
order of things. 

•‘What do you wish to show me?” he 
asked. “What is it that is so very curi- 
ous?’’ 

“Perhaps nothing,” replied Lecoq, per- 
haps something of great importance.” 

Eleven o'clock sounding soon after, he 
began singing the prisoner’s song : 

“Diogene 

Sous ton manteau ’* 


He had scarcely finished the second 
line, when a bit of bread, no larger than 
a bullet, adroitly thrown through the 
window, dropped at his feet. 

A thunderbolt falling in May’s cell 
would not have terrified the superintend- 
ent as much as did this inoffensive pro- 
jectile. 

He stood in silent dismay ; his mouth 
wide open, his eyes starting from their 
sockets, as if he distrusted the evidence 
of his own senses. 

What a disgrace! An instant before 
he would have staked his life upon the 
inviolability of the secret cells. He be- 
held his prison dishonored — sneered at. 

“A communication! a communica- 
tion !” he repeated, with a horrified air. 

Quick as lightning, Lecoq picked up 
the missile snd held it up in triumph. 

“I said that this man was in communi- 
cation with his friends,” he murmured. 

Lecoq’ s evident delight changed the 
superintendent’s stupor into fury. 

“Ah! my prisoners are writing!” he 
exclaimed, wild with passion. “My 
guards are acting as postmen !” By my 
faith, this matter shall be looked into.” 

He rushed towards the door; Lecoq 
stopped him. 

“What are you going to do, monsieur?” 
he asked. 

“I am going to call all the employes of 
this prison together, and inform them 
that there is a traitor among them, and 
that I must know who he is, as I wish to 
make an example of him. And if, in 
twenty-four hours from now, the culprit 
has not been discovered, every man con- 
nected with this prison shall be removed.” 

Again he started to leave the room, and 
Lecoq, this time, had almost to use force 
to detain him. 

“Be calm, sir ; be calm,” he entreated. 

“I will punish ” 

“Yes, yes — I understand that — but 
wait until you have regained your self- 
possession. " It is possible that the guilty 
party may be one of the prisoners who 
aid in the distribution of food every 
morning.” 

“What does that matter?” 

“Pardon! It matters a great deal. If 
you noise this discovery abroad, if you 
say a single word about it, we shall never 
discover the truth. The traitor will not 
be fool enough to confess his guilt. We 
must be silent and wait. We will keep a 
close watch and detect thd' culprit in the 
very act.” 

These objections were so sensible that 
the keeper yielded. 

“So be it,” he sighed, “I will be pa- 
tient. But let us see the missive that 
was enclosed in this morsel of bread.” 

Lecoq would not consent to this pro- 
position. 

“I warned M. Segmuller that there 
would probably be some new develop- 


83 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


merits this morning; and he must be 
waiting for me in his office. I must re- 
serve the pleasure of opening this en- 
velope for him.” 

The superintendent’s face clouded. He 
would have given a great deal could he 
have kept this affair a secret ; but that 
was entirely out of the question. 

“Let us go and find the judge, then,” 
said he, despondently. 

They started, and on their way Lecoq 
endeavored to convince the worthy man 
that he was quite wrong to deplore a cir- 
cumstance which would be of incalcul- 
able benefit to the prosecution. Had he, 
until now, supposed himself more cun- 
ning than his prisoners ? What an illu- 
sion ! Had not the ingenuity of the pris- 
oner always defied, and will it not always 
defy, the finesse of his guardians? 

But they had reached the office, and at 
the sight of them, M. Segmuller and his 
clerk both sprang from their seats. They 
read startling news in the face of the 
young detective. 

“What is it?” demanded the judge, 
eagerly. 

Lecoq’s sole response was to place the 
preci >us morsel of bread upon the desk. 
The judge opened it. 

It contained a tiny scrap of the thin- 
nest tissue paper. 

M. Segmuller unfolded it, and smoothed 
it upon the palm of his hand. As 
soon as he glanced at it, his brow con- 
tracted. 

“Ah ! this note is written in cipher,” 
he exclaimed, striking his clinched fist 
violently upon his desk. 

“We must not lose patience,” said Le- 
coq, tranquilly. 

He took the slip of paper, and read 
aloud the numbers that were inscribed 
upon it. They were as follows, separa- 
ted by commas : 

235, 15, 3, 8, 25, 2, 16, 208, 5, 360, 4, 36, 
19, 7, 14, llff, 84, 23, 9, 40, 11, 99. 

“And so we shall learn nothing from 
this note,” murmured the keeper. 

“Why not?” responded the smiling 
clerk. “There is no system of cipher 
which cannot be read with a little skill 
and patience. There are some people 
who make it their business.” 

“ You are right,” approved Lecoq. 
“And I, mj^self, once had a knack at it.” 

“What!” exclaimed the judge; “do 
you hope to find the key to this cipher?” 

“With time, yes.” 

He was about placing the paper in his 
breast-pocket, but the judge begged him 
to examine it further. 

He did so; and after a little, his face 
brightened, and striking his forehead 
with his open palm, he cried : 

“I have found it!” 

An exclamation of surprise, and possi- 
bly of incredulity, escaped the judge, the 
keeper, and the clerk. 


“At least I think so,” added Lecoq. 
more cautiously. “The prisoner and his 
accomplice have, if I am not mistaken, 
adopted the system called the double 
book cipher. This system is very simple. 

“The correspondents first agree upon 
some particular book; and both obtain 
a copy of the same edition. 

“What if one desires to communicate 
with the other? 

“He opens the book hap-hazard, and 
begins by writing the number of the 
page. 

“Then he must seek, upon that page, 
the words necessary to give expression 
to his thought. If the first word which 
he desires to write is the twentieth word 
printed on the page, he writes the num- 
ber 20 ; then he begins to count one, two, 
three, until he finds the next word that 
he wishes to use. If this word happens 
to be the sixth, he writes the figure 6 ; 
and he continues in this way until he 
has written all he wishes to communi- 
cate. 

“You see, now, how the correspondent 
who receives this mission must begin. 
He finds the page indicated, and each 
figure represents a word.” 

“Nothing could be more clear,” said 
the judge, approvingly. 

“If this note that I hold here,” pur- 
sued Lecoq, “ had been exchanged be- 
tween two persons who were at liberty, 
it would be folly to attempt its transla- 
tion. This simple system is the only one 
which has completely baffled the efforts 
of the curious, simply because there is 
no way of ascertaining the book agreed 
upon. 

“But such is not the case here; May is 
a prisoner, and he has but one book in 
his possession. ‘The songs of Beranger.’ 
Let this book be sent for ” 

The keeper was actually enthusiastic. 

“I will run and fetch it myself,” he in- 
terrupted. 

But Lecoq, with a gesture detained 
him. 

“Above all, monsieur, take care that 
May does not discover his boo^ has been 
tampered with. If he has returned from 
his promenade, make some excuse to 
have him sent out of his cell again ; and 
do not allow him to return there while 
we are using his book.” 

“Oh, trust me!” replied the superin- 
tendent. 

He left the room, and so intense was 
his zeal, that he was back again in less 
than a quarter of an hour, bringing in 
triumph a little volume in 32mo. 

With a trembling hand, Lecoq opened 
to page 235, and began to count. 

The fifteenth word on the page was I; 
the third after, was the word have ; the 
eighth following that, was told; tne 
twenty-fifth, her ; the second, your ; the 
sixteenth, wishes. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ.' 


89 


Hence the meaning of those six num- 
bers was : 

“I have told her your wishes.” 

The three persons who had witnessed 
this display of shrewdness could not re- 
strain their admiration. 

“Bravo! Lecoq,” exclaimed the judge. 

“I will no longer bet a hundred to one 
on May,” thought the clerk. 

But Lecoq was still busily engaged in 
deciphering the missive, and soon, in a 
voice trembling with gratified vanity, he 
read the entire note aloud. It was as 
follows : 

“I have told her your wishes ; she sub- 
mits. Our safety is assured; we are 
waiting your orders to act. Hope ! 
Courage 1” 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

What a disappointment, after the fever 
of anxiety and expectation that had held 
the witnesses of this scene motionless 
and breathless ! 

This short and unintelligible epistle 
afforded no information whatever upon 
the subject in which all present were so 
deeply interested. 

The light of hope which had sparkled 
in M. Segmuller’s eye a moment before, 
faded; and Goquet returned to his for- 
mer opinion, that the prisoner had the 
advantage over his accusers. 

“How unfortunate,” remarked the 
superintendent, with a shade of sarcasm 
in his voice, “that so much trouble, and 
such marvelous penetration, should be 
wasted!” 

Lecoq, whose confidence seemed unal- 
terable, regarding him with a bantering 
air, replied ; 

“So monsieur thinks I have wasted my 
time! Such is not my opinion. This 
scrap of paper undeniably proves that if 
any person has been mistaken in regard 
to the identity of the prisoner, it certain- 
ly was not I.” 

“Very well. M. Gevrol and I may 
have been mistaken ; no one is infallible. 
But have you learned anything more than 
you knew before? Have you made any 
progress?” 

“Wliy, yes, monsieur. Now that peo- 
ple know the prisoner is not what he pre- 
tends to be, instead of annoying and 
hampering me, perhaps they will aid to 
discover who he really is.” 

Lecoq’s tone, and his allusion to the 
difficulties he had encountered, wounded 
the keeper. But precisely because he 
felt the blood mount to his forehead 
under this just reproof, he resolved, to 
cut short this discussion with an inferior. 

“You are right,” said he, sarcastically.' 
“This May must be a very great and il- 
lustrious personage. Only, my dear! 


Monsieur Lecoq (for there is an only), 
do me the favor to explain how such an 
important personage could disappear, 
and the police not be advised of it? A 
man of rank, such as you suppose this 
prisoner to be, usually has a family, 
friends, relatives, proteges, and extended 
connections ; and yet not a single person 
has lifted his voice during the three weeks 
that this May has been under my charge ! 
Come, admit that you have not thought 
of this.” 

The keeper had just advanced the only 
serious objection that could be found 
against the theory advanced by the prose- 
cution. 

But Lecoq had seen it before. It had 
not been once out of his mind ; and he 
had racked his brain to find some satis- 
factory explanation. 

Undoubtedly he would have made some 
angry retort, as people are wont to do 
when their antagonists discover the weak 
spot in their armor, had not M. Segmul- 
ler interposed. 

“All these recriminations do no good,” 
he remarked, calmly; “we can make no 
progress while these continue. It would 
be much wiser to decide upon the course 
to be pursued under the present circum- 
stances.” 

Thus reminded of the present situation 
of affairs, the young man smiled ; all his 
rancor was forgotten. 

“There is, I think, but one course to 
pursue,” he replied, modestly; “and I 
believe it will be successful by reason of 
its simplicity. We must substitute a 
communication of our own composition 
for this one. That will not be at all diffi- 
cult, since I have the key to the cipher. 
I shall only be obliged to purchase a 
similar volume of Beranger's songs ; and 
May, believing that he is addressing his 
accomplice, will respond in all sincerity, 
and will reveal everything, perhaps ” 

“Pardon!” interrupted the keeper, 
“how will you obtain possession of his 
reply ?” 

“Ah! you ask me too much. I know 
the way in which his letters have reached 
him. For the rest, I will watch and find 
a way — never fear 1” 

Goquet could not conceal an approving 
grin. If he had happened to have ten 
francs on hand, he would have risked 
them all on Lecoqjust then. 

“First, I will replace this missive by 
one of my own composition. To-mor- 
row, at the breakfast hour, if the pris- 
oner gives the signal, Father Absinthe 
will throw the morsel of bread mclosing 
the note through the window, while I 
from my observatory watch the effect.” 

He was so delighted with this plan that 
he at once rang the bell, and when the 
messenger appeared, he gave him a ten 
sous piece and requested him to go at 


90 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


once and purchase some of the thinnest 
tissue paper. 

When he was in possession of the paper, 
which was apparently exactly like that 
upon which the note was written, he 
seated himself at the clerk’s desk, and 
armed with the volume of Beranger’s 
poems, he began the composition of his 
missive, copying as closely as possible the 
forms of the figures used by the unknown 
correspondent. 

This task did not occupy him more 
than ten minutes. Fearing to commit 
some blunder, he reproduced the words 
of the original letter, with but little 
change in the words themselves, but 
with an entire change of meaning. 

His note read as follows : 

“I have told her your wishes ; she does 
not submit* Our safety is threatened. 
We are awaiting your orders. I tremble.” 

When this was completed, he rolled up 
the paper, and enclosing it in the frag- 
ment of bread, he said : 

“Tomorrow we shall learn something.” 

Tomorow ! The twenty-four hours 
that separated the young man from the 
decisive moment, seemed a century. 
What expedients he resorted to, in order 
to hasten the slow passage of time ! 

He explained to Father Absinthe clearly 
and minutely what he would have to do, 
and sure of being understood, and certain 
that he would be obeyed, he went back 
to his loft. 

The evening seemed long, and the 
night interminable, for he found it im- 
possible to close an eyelid. 

He rose at day-break and saw that his 
prisoner was awake and was sitting on 
the foot of the bed. Soon he sprang up 
and paced restlessly to and fro. He was 
evidently in an unusually agitated frame 
of mind ; he gesticulated wildly, and at in- 
tervals certain words — always the same 
words — escaped his lips. 

“What misery! My God! what mis- 
ery!” he repeated again and again. 

“Ah! my boy,” thought Lecoq, “you 
are anxious about the daily letter which 
you failed to receive. Patience, patience ! 
One of my writing will soon arrive.” 

At last the young detective heard the 
stir that always preceded the distribution 
of food. People were running to and 
fro, sabots clicked noisily in the corri- 
dors, the guards were talking loudly. 

Eleven o’clock was sounded by the old 
clock ; the prisoner began his song : 

.“Diogene 
Sous ton manteau, 

Libre et content ” 

He did not finish the third line ; the 
slight sound caused by the fragment of 
bread as it fell upon the stone floor, made 
him pause suddenly. 

Lecoq, at the opening in the ceiling 
above, was holding his breath, and watch- 
ing with all his eyes. 


He did not miss a single movement of 
the prisoner — not so much as the quiver 
of an eyelid. 

May looked first at the window, then 
all about him, as if it were impossible for 
him to explain the arrival of this projec- 
tile. 

It was not until some little time had 
elapsed that he decided to pick it up. He 
held it in the hollow of his hand, and ex- 
amined it with apparent curiosity His 
features expressed the most profound 
surprise. One would have sworn that he 
was innocent of all complicity. 

Soon a smile appeared upon his lips. 
With a slight shrug of the shoulders, 
which might be interpreted : “Am I a 
fool?” and with a rapid movement, he 
broke open the morsel of bread. The 
sight of the paper which it contained 
seemed to amaze him. 

“What does all this mean?” wondered 
Lecoq, 

The prisoner had opened the note, and 
was examining, with knitted brows, the 
figures which were apparently destitute 
of all meaning to him. 

Then suddenly he rushed to the door 
of his cell, and, hammering upon it with 
his fists, he cried : 

“Here! guard! here!” 

A keeper came running, in answer to 
the summons. Lecoq heard his footsteps 
in the corridor. 

•‘What do you want?” the man cried, 
through the opening in the cell door. 

“I wish to speak to the judge.” 

“Very well. He shall be informed.” 

“Immediately, if you please. I wish 
to make some revelations.” 

“He shall be sent for immediately.” 

Lecoq waited to hear no more. 

He tore down the narrow staircase 
leading from the loft, and rushed to the 
Palais de Justice to tell M. Segmulier 
what had happened. 

“What can this mean?” he wondered, 
as he went. “Are we indeed approach- 
ing a denouement? This much is certain, 
the prisoner was not deceived by my 
note. He could decipher it only with 
the aid of his volume of ‘Beranger he 
has not touched the book, therefore he 
has not read the note.” 

M. Segmulier was no less amazed than 
the young detective. Together the^ has- 
tened to the prison, followed by the clerk, 
who was the judge’s inevitable shadow. 

They had reached the end of the Gal- 
erie d’lnstruction, when they encoun- 
tered the keeper, who was coming all in 
a flutter, greatly excited by that import- 
ant word, “revelation.” 

The worthy official undoubtedly wished 
to make known his opinion; but the 
judge checked him by saying: 

“I know all about it; and I am com- 
ing.” 

When they had reached the narrow 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


V 


91 


corridor leading to the secret cells, Lecoq 
passed on in advance of the rest of the 
party. 

He said to himself that by stealing 
upon him unawares, he might possibly 
find the prisoner engaged in surrepti- 
tiously reading the note ; and that, in any 
case, he would have an opportunity to 
glance at the interior of the cell. 

May was seated by the table, his head 
resting upon his hands. 

At the grating of the bolt, drawn by 
the hand of the headkeeper himself, he 
rose, smoothed his hair, and remained 
standing in a respectful attitude, appa- 
rently waiting for the visitors to address 
him. 

“Did you send for me?” inquired the 
judge. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

^ “You have, I understand, some revela- 
tion to make to me. ’ 

“I have something of importance to 
tell you.” 

“Very well! these gentlemen will re- 
tire.” 

M. Segmuller had already turned to 
Lecoq and the keeper to request them to 
withdraw, when a movement from the 
prisoner checked his words. 

“It is not necessary,” May remarked ; 
“I am, on the contrary, very well pleased 
to speak before everybody.” 

“Speak, then.” 

May did not oblige him to repeat the 
order. He assumed a three-quarters posi- 
tion, inflated his chest, threw his head 
back, as he had done from the very be- 
ginning of his examinations when he 
wished to make a display of his elo- 
quence. 

“It shall be for you to say, gentlemen, 
whether I am or am not, an honest man. 
The profession matters little. Oue can, 
perhaps, be the clown of a traveling 
show, and yet be an honest man — a man 
of honor.” 

“Oh, spare us your reflections!” 

“Very well, monsieur, that suits me 
exactljo To be brief, then, here is a lit- 
tle paper which was thrown into my ceil 
a few moments ago. There are numbers 
upon it which may mean something ; but 
I have examined it, and it is all Greek to 
me.” 

He handed it to the judge, and added : 

“It was rolled up in a bit of bread.” 

The violence of this unexpected blow 
struck his visitors dumb ; but the pris- 
oner, without seeming to notice the effect 
he had produced, continued : 

“I suppose that the person who threw 
it, made a mistake in the window. I 
know very well that it is a mean piece of 
business to denounce a companion in 
prison. It is cowardly; and one is very 
likely to get himself into trouble; but a 
man must be prudent, when he is accused 
of being an assassin as I am, and when 


he is threatened with a great unpleasant- 
ness.” 

A terribly significant gesture of sever- 
ing the head from the body left no doubt 
whatever of what he meant by an un- 
pleasantness. 

“And yet I am innocent,” he mur- 
mured. 

The judge, by this time, had recovered 
the full possession of his faculties. He 
concentrated in one glance all the power 
of his will, and looking intently at the 
prisoner : 

“You lie!” he said, slowly; “it was for 
you that this note was intended.” 

“Forme! Then I must be the great- 
est of fools, or why should I have called 
you to show it to you? For me? In 
that case, why did I not keep it? Who 
knew, who could know that I had re- 
ceived it?” 

All this was said with such a marvel- 
ous semblance of honesty, his gaze was 
so frank and open, his voice rang so true, 
his reasoning was so specious, that the 
keeper’s doubts returned. 

“And what if I could prove that you 
are uttering a falsehood?” insisted M. 
Segmuller. “What if I could prove it — 
here and now?” 

“You would be the liar! Oh! mon- 
sieur, pardon ! Excuse me ; I mean ” 

But the judge was not in a frame of 
mind to stickle for nicety of expression. 

He motioned May to be silent; and, 
turning to Lecoq, he said : 

“Show the prisoner that you have dis- 
covered the key to his secret corre- 
spondence.” 

A sudden change passed over the feat- 
ures of the accused. 

“Ah ! it is this agent of police who has 
found it,” he said, in an altered tone. 
“The same agent who assures me that I 
am a grand seigneur.” 

He turned disdainfully to Lecoq, and 
added : 

“Under these circumstances there is no 
help for me. When the police are abso- 
lutely determined that a man shall be 
guilty, it will be proved that he is guilty ; 
everybody knows that. And when a 
prisoner receives no letters, an agent, 
who wishes such to be the case, knows 
how to send them to him.” 

There was such an expression of con- 
tempt upon the prisoner’s face, that 
Lecoq could scarcely refrain from mak- 
ing an angry reply. 

He restrained this desire, however, in 
obedience to a warning gesture from the 
judge, and taking from the table the vol- 
ume of Beranger, he endeavored to prove 
to the prisoner that each number in the 
note corresponded to a word on the page 
indicated, and that all these words formed 
an intelligible whole. 

This overpowering evidence did not 
seem to trouble May in the least. After 


92 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


expressing tlie snme admiration for this 
novel system of correspondence that a 
child would show for a new toy, he de- 
clared his belief that no one could equal 
the police in such machinations. 

What could one do in the face of such 
obstinacy? 

M. Segmuller did not even attempt to 
argue the point, and retired, followed by 
his companions. 

Until they reached the superintendent's 
office, he did not utter a word ; then he 
threw himself down into an arm-chair, 
saying : 

u We must confess ourselves beaten. 
This man will always remain what he is 
now — an enigma.” 

4 ‘But what is the meaning of che 
comedy he has just played? I do not 
understand it,” said the keeper. 

“Why,” responded Lecoq, “do you not 
see that he hoped to persuade the judge 
that the first note had been written by 
me, in order to convince him of the truth 
of my theory? It was a hazardous pro- 
ject ; but the importance of the result to 
be gained must have emboldened him to 
attempt it. Had he succeeded, I should 
have been disgraced ; and he would have 
remained May — without further molesta- 
tion, in the eyes of the world. But how 
could he know that I had discovered his 
correspondence, and that I was watching 
him from the loft above? That is some- 
thing which will never be explained, 
probably.” 

The keeper and the detective exchanged 
glances of mutual distrust. 

“Eh! eh!” thought the director, “why, 
indeed, might not that note which fell at 
my feet the other day have been the work 
of this crafty fellow? His Father Ab- 
sinthe might have served him in the first 
instance as well as he did in the last.” 

“Who knows,” Lecoq was saying to 
himself, “but what this worthy keeper 
has confided everything to Gevrol? If 
he has, my jealous General w^ould not 
scruple to play me such a trick as this.” 

* 4 Ah!” exclaimed Goquet, “it is really 
a pity that such a well-mounted comedy 
did not succeed.” 

These words startled the judge from 
his reverie. 

“A shameful farce,” he said, “and one 
that I would never have authorized, had 
I not been blinded by a mad longing to 
arrive at the truth. It brings the sacred 
majesty of justice into contempt to make 
her the accomplice of such base subter- 
fuges!” 

Lecoq, on hearing these words, became 
white with wrath, and a tear of rage glit- 
tered in his eye. 

It was the second affront within an 
hour. Insulted, first by the prisoner, 
afterwards by the judge. 

“I am defeated,” thought he. “I must 


confess it. It is Fate ! Ah ! if I had but 
succeeded !” 

Disappointment alone had impelled M. 
Segmuller to utter these harsh words; 
they were harsh and unjust ; he regretted 
them, and did all in his power to make 
Lecoq forget them. 

For they met every day after this un- 
fortunate incident; and every morning, 
when the young detective came to give 
an account of his investigations, they 
had a long conference. 

For Lecoq still continued his efforts; 
still labored with an obstinacy intensified 
by constant sneers ; still pursued his 
investigations with that cold and deter- 
mined anger which keeps one’s faculties 
on the alert for years. 

But the judge was utterly discouraged. 

“We must abandon this attempt,” said 
he. “All the means of detection have 
been exhausted. 1 give it up. The pris- 
oner will go to the Court of Assizes, and 
will be acquitted or condemned under 
the name of May. I will trouble myself 
no more about the affair.” 

He said this, but his anxiety, the disap- 
pointment caused by his defeat, the sar- 
castic remarks of his acquaintances, and 
his perplexity in regard to the course he 
had best pursue, so affected his health 
that he became really ill — so ill that he 
was confined to his bed. 

Eight days had elapsed since he had 
left his house, when one morning Lecoq 
called to inquire for him. 

“You see, my good fellow, that this 
mysterious murderer is fatal to us judges. 
Ah ! he is too much for us ; he will pre- 
serve his identity.” 

“Possibly,” replied Lecoq. “There is 
but one way left to gain his secret : we 
must allow him to escape — and then track 
him to his lair. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

This last expedient, proposed by Le- 
coq, was not of his own invention, and 
not by any means new. 

In every age, the police-force has, 
when it became necessary to do so, 
closed its eyes and opened the prison 
doors for the release of suspected par- 
ties. 

And not a few, dazzled by liberty and 
ignorance of any espionage , betray them- 
selves. 

All the prisoners are not, like Lavalette, 
protected by royal connivance; and we 
might enumerate many individu; Is who 
like the unfortunate Georges d'Etcherony, 
have been released, only to be re-arrested, 
when they have made a confession of 
guilt to those who had wormed them- 
selves into their confidence. 

Poor D'Etcherony ! He supposed that 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


93 


he had eluded the vigilance of his guar- 
dians. When he discovered his error, 
and became aware of the mistake he had 
made, he sent a bullet through his own 
heart. 

Alas ! he survived this terrible wound 
long; enough to learn that one of his own 
familiar friends had betrayed him, and 
to cast in his teeth the insulting word 
“traitor !” 

It is. however, very seldom, and only 
in special cases, and as a last resort, that 
such a plan is adopted. 

And the authorities consent to it only 
when they hope to derive some impor- 
tant advantage, such as the capture of 
a whole band of malefactors. 

The police arrest, perhaps, one of the 
band. In spite of his wickedness, a 
sense of honor makes him, not unfre- 
quently, refuse to name his accomplices. 
What is to be done ? Is he alone to be 
tried and condemned? 

No. He is set at liberty; but like the 
falcon who flies away with a thread at- 
tached to his foot, he drags after him at 
the end of his chain a crowd of close ob- 
servers. 

And at the very moment when he is 
boasting of his good luck and audacity 
to the comrades he has rejoined, the 
whole company find themselves caught 
in the snare. 

M. Segmuller knew all this, and much 
more; yet on hearing Lecoq’ s proposi- 
tion, he turned to him angrily, and ex- 
claimed : 

“Are you mad?” 

“I think not.” 

“A most foolish scheme!” 

“Why so, monsieur? After the assas- 
sination of the husband and wife Cha- 
boiseau, the police succeeded in captur- 
ing the guilty parties, you must recol- 
lect. But a robbery of one hundred and 
fifty thousand francs in bank-notes and 
coin had also been committed. This 
large sum of money could not be found ; 
and the murderers obstinately refused to 
divulge where they had concealed it. It 
would be a fortune for them, if they es- 
caped the gallows; but. meanwhile, the 
children of the victims were ruined. M. 
Patrigent, the judge of instruction, was 
the first — I will not say to counsel— but 
to succeed in convincing the authorities 
that it would be well to set one of these 
wretches at liberty. They followed his 
advice ; and three days later the culprit 
was surprised disinterring his booty from 
a bed of mushrooms. ,1 believe that our 
prisoner ” 

“Enough !” interrupted M. Segmuller. 
“I wish to hear no more about this affair. 
I have, it seems to me, forbidden you to 
broach the subject.” 

The young detective hung his head 
with a hypocritical air of submission. 

But he was all the while watching the 


judge out of the corner of his eye and 
noting his agitation. 

“I can afford to be silent,” he thought ; 
“he will return to the subject of his own 
accord.” 

He did, in fact, return to it only a mo- 
ment afterwards. 

“Suppose this man was released from 
prison, what would you do?” 

“What would I do, monsieur ! I would 
follow' him like grim death ; I would not 
let him go out of my sight ; I would live 
in his shadow.” 

“And do you suppose that he would 
not discover this surveillance !” 

“I should take my precautions.” 

“He would recognize you at a single 
glance.” 

“No, monsieur, because I shall dis- 
guise myself. A detective who is not 
capable of equalling the most skilful ac- 
tor in the matter of make-up is no better 
than an ordinary policeman. I have 
practiced only for a year in making my 
face and my person whatever I wish them 
to be ; but I can, at will, be old or young, 
dark or light, a man of the world, or the 
most frightful ruffian of the barrieres .” 

“I was not aware that you possessed 
this talent, Monsieur Lecoq.” 

“Oh! Iam very far from the perfec- 
tion of which I dream. I venture to en- 
gage, however, that before three daj'S 
have elapsed, I can appear before you 
and converse with you for half an hour 
without being recognized. 

M. Segmuller made no response ; and 
it was evident to Lecoq that the judge 
had offered these objections in the hope 
of seeing them destroyed, rather than 
with the wish to see them prevail. 

“I think, my poor boy, that you are 
strangely deceived. We have both been 
equally anxious to penetrate the mystery 
that shrouds this strange man. We have 
both admired his wonderful acuteness — 
for his sagacity is wonderful ; so marvel- 
lous, indeed, that it exceeds the limits of 
imagination. Do you believe that a man 
of his penetration will betray himself 
like an ordinary prisoner ? He will un- 
derstand at once, if he is set at liberty, 
that his freedom is given him only that 
w r e may use it against him.” 

“I do not deceive myself, sir. May 
will divine the truth. I know that but 
too well.” 

“Very well; then what will be the use 
of attempting what you propose?” 

“I have reflected on the subject, and 
have come to this conclusion : This man 
wall find himself strangely embarrassed, 
even when he is free. He will not have 
a sou in his pocket; he has no trade. 
What will he do to make a living? But 
one must eat. He may struggle along 
for a while ; but he will not be willing to 
suffer long. Days wiien he is without a 
shelter, and without a moj sel of bread, 


94 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


he will remember that lie is rich. Will] 
he not seek to recover ,his property? 
Yes, certainly. lie will try to obtain 
money ; he will endeavor to communicate 
with his friends. I shall wait until that 
day comes. Months will elapse, and see- 
ing no sign of my surveillance, he will 
venture some decisive step; and I will 
step forward with a warrant for his ar- 
rest in my hand.” 

“And what if he should leave Paris? 
What if he should flee to some foreign 
country ?” 

“I will follow him. One of my aunts 
has left me a small country property, 
that is worth about twelve thousand 
francs. I will sell it, and I will spend 
the last sou, if necessary, in pursuit of 
my revenge. This man has outwitted 
me as if I were a child, and I will have 
my turn.” 

“And what if he should slip through 
your fingers.” 

Lecoq" laughed like a man who was 
sure of himself. 

“Let him try,” he exclaimed : “I will 
answer for him with my life.” 

Unfortunately, Lecoq’s enthusiasm 
made the judge all the colder. 

“Your idea is a good one, sir,” he re- 
sponded. “But you must understand 
that law and justice will take no part in 
such intrigues. All I can promise you 
is my tacit approval. Go, therefore, to 
the prefecture; see your superiors ” 

With a really despairing gesture, the 
young man interrupted M. Segmuller. 

“What good would it do for me to 
make such a proposition?” he exclaimed. 
“They would not only refuse my re- 
quest, but they would give me my dis- 
missal, if my name is not already erased 
from the roll.” 

“You dismissed, your name erased 
after you have conducted this case so 
well?” 

“Alas! sir, every one is not of that 
opinion. Tongues have been wagging 
busily during the week of your illness. 
My enemies have heard somehow of the 
last scene we had with May. Ah, yes ! 
that man is very clever. They all say 
now that it was I. who, with a hope of 
advancement, imagined all the romantic 
details of this affair. They declare that 
there can be no doubt of the prisoner’s 
identity except those of my own inven- 
tion. To hear them talk at the depot 
one might suppose that I invented the 
scene that took place in the Widow Chu- 
pin’s cabin; imagined the accomplices; 
suborned the witnesses; manufactured 
the articles found in the dwelling; wrote 
that first note as well as the second; 
duped Father Absinthe, and mystified 
the keeper.” 

“The devil!” exclaimed M. Segmuller; 
“in that case what do they think of me?” 


| The wily detective's face assumed an 
expression of intense embarrassment. 

“Ah! sir,” he replied, with a great 
show of reluctance, “they pretend that 
you have allowed yourself to be deceived 
by me, that you have not properly 
weighed the proofs which I have ad- 
duced.” 

A fleeting crimson tinged M. Segmul- 
ler's forehead. 

“In a word,” said he, “they think I am 
your dupe — and a fool.” 

The recollection of certain smiles that 
he had encountered in passing through 
the corridors, and of divers allusions 
which had stung him to the quick, de- 
cided him. 

“Very well ! I will aid you, Monsieur 
Lecoq,” he exclaimed. “I would like 
you to triumph over your enemies. 1 
will get up at once, and accompany you 
to the palace. I will see the attorney- 
general myself ; I will speak to him ; I 
will plead your cause for you.” 

Lecoq' s joy was intense. 

Never, no never, had he dared hope to 
obtain such aid. 

Ah! after this, M. Segmuller might 
ask him to go through fire for him if he 
chose, and he would be ready to precipi- 
tate himself into the flames. 

Still he was prudent enough, and he 
had sufficient control over his feelings, 
to preserve a sober face. This was one 
of the victories that must be concealed, 
under penalty of losing all the benefits 
to be derived from it. 

Certainly the young detective had said 
nothing that was untrue ; but there are 
different ways of presenting the truth, 
and he had, perhaps, exaggerated a trifle 
in order to make the judge share his ran- 
cor, and make him an earnest auxiliary. 
M. Segmuller, however, after the ex- 
clamation wrested from him by his adroit- 
ly wounded vanity — after the first explo- 
sion of anger — regained his accustomed 
calmness. 

“I suppose,” he remarked to Lecoq, 
“that you have decided what stratagem 
must be employed to lull the prisoner's 
suspicions in case he is perm tted to es- 
cape.” 

“I have not once thought of that. I 
must confess. Besides, what good would 
any such stratagem do ? That man knows 
too w T ell that he is the object of suspi- 
cion and anxious surveillance not to hold 
himself on the qui vive. But there is one 
precaution which I believe is absolutely 
necessary, indispensable indeed. In fact, 
it appears to me an essential condition of 
success.” 

Lecoq seemed to find so much difficulty 
in choosing his words, that the judge felt 
it necessary to aid him. 

“Let me hear this precaution,” said he. 

“It consists, sir, in giving an order to 
transfer May to another prison. Oh! it 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


05 


one, any 


matters not which 
choose to select.” 

“Why, if you please?” 

“Because, during the few days 
precede his release, it is absolutely nec 
essary that he should hold no communi- 
cation with his friends outside, and that 
he should be unable to warn his accom- 
plice.” 

This proposition seemed to amaze M. 
Segmuller exceedingly. 

“Then you think that he is poorly 
guarded where he is?” he inquired. 

“No, monsieur, I d d not say that. I 
am persuaded that since the affair of the 
note the keeper has redoubled his vigi- 
lance. But still, where he is now, this 
ni3 r sterious murderer certainly receives 
news from outside ; we have had material 
evidence — unanswerable proofs of that 
fact — and besides ” 

He paused, evidently fearing to give 
expression to his thought, like a person 
who feels that what he is about to say 
will be regarded as an enormity. 

“And besides?” insisted the judge. 

“Ah, well, sir! I will be perfectly 
frank with you. I find that Gevrol en- 
joys too much liberty in the depot ; he is 
perfectly at home there ; he comes and 
goes, and no one ever thinks of asking 
what he is doing, where he is going, or 
what he wishes there. No pass is neces- 
sary for his admission, and he can make 
the head-keeper, who is a very honest 
man, see stars in the heavens at mid-day 
if he chooses. And I distrust Gevrol.” 

“Oh! Monsieur Lecoq!” 

“Yes, I know very well that it is a 
bold accusation, but a man is not master 
of his presentiments, and I distrust 
Gevrol. Did the prisoner know or did he 
not know, that I was watching him from 
the loft, and that I had discovered his se- 
cret correspondence? Evidently he did 
know this ; the last scene with him proves 
it.” 

“Such is also my opinion.” 

“But how could he have known it? He 
could not have discovered it unaided. 
For eight days I endured tortures to find 
the solution of this problem. All my 
trouble was wasted. Gevrol’s interven- 
tion would explain it all.” 

M. Segmuller, at the mere suppostion, 
turned pale with anger.” 

Ah ! if I could really believe that !” he 
exclaimed ; “if I were sure of it! Have 
you any proofs?” 

The young man shook his head. 

“If I had my hands full of proofs I 
should know enough not to open them. 
Would it not ruin my whole future? I 
must, if I succeed, expect many such 
acts of treachery. There is hatred and 
rivalry in every profession? And mark 
this, monsieur — I do not doubt Gevrol’s 
honesty. If a hundred thousand francs 
were counted out upon the table and 


one you offered to him, he would not release a 
prisoner. But he would rob justice of a 
dozen criminals in the mere hope of in- 
that juring me, whom he thinks likely to over- 
shadow him.” 

How many things these words ex- 
plained ! To how many unsolved enig- 
mas did they give the key! But the 
judge had not time to follow out this 


course of thought. 


into the 
‘U w ill 


awaiting 


Seg- 


“That will do,” said he, “go 
drawing-room for a moment, 
dress and join you there. I will send 
for a carriage ; I must make haste if I wish 
to see the procureur-general to-day.” 

Usually very particular about the 
minutiae of his toilette, this morning the 
judge was dressed and in the drawing- 
room in less than quarter of an hour. 

As soon as he entered the apartment 
where Lecoq was impatiently 
him, he said, briefly : 

“Let us start.” 

They were just entering the carriage, 
when a man, whose handsome livery pro- 
claimed him a servitor in an aristocratic 
household, hastily approached M. 
muller. 

“Ah! Jean, is it you?” said the judge. 

“How is your master.” 

Improving, monsieur. He sent me to 
ask how you were, and to inquire how 
that affair was progressing?” 

“There has been no change in that 
since I wrote him last. Give him my 
compliments, and tell him that I am out 
again.” 

The servant bowed. Lecoq took a seat 
beside the judge, and the fiacre started. 

“That fellow is D’Escorval’s valet de 
chambre ,” remarked M. Segmuller. 

“The judge who ” 

“Precisely. He sent his man to me 
two or three days ago, to ascertain what 
we were doing with our mysterious 
May.” 

“Then M. d’Escorval is interested in 
the case?” 

I conclude it is be- 
the prosecution, and 
rightfully belongs to 
regrets that it passed 
out of his hands, and thinks that he could 
have managed the instruction better him- 
self. We would have done hotter with 
it, if we could. I would give a good 
deal to see him in my place.” 

But this change would not have been 
at all to Lecoq ? s taste. 

“That stern and forbidding judge 
would never have granted the conces- 
sions I have just obtained from M. Seg- 
muller,” he thought. 

He had, indeed, good reason to con- 
gratulate himself ; for M. Segmuller did 
not break his promise. He was one of 
those men who, when they have once de- 
cided upon a plan, never rest until it has 
been carried into execution. 


“Prodigiously! 
cause he opened 
because the case 
him. Perhaps he 


96 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


That very day he induced the authori- 
ties to adopt Lecoq’s suggestion; and 
the details only remained to be decided 
upon. 

That same afternoon, the Widow Chu- 
pin received her conditional release. 

There was no difficulty in regard to 
Polyte. He, in the meantime, had been 
brought before the court under a charge 
of theft; and, to his great astonishment, 
had heard himself condemned to thirteen 
months’ imprisoment. 

After this M. Scgmuller had nothing to 
do but to wait, and this was much more 
easy to do, since the coming of the Easter 
holidays gave him an opportunity to seek 
a little rest and recreation in the prov- 
inces, with his family. 

He returned to Paris on the last day of 
the recess, which chanced to fall on Sun- 
day, and he was sitting quietly in his own 
drawing-room, when a servant — who had 
been sent by the employment bureau to 
take the place of one whom he had dis- 
missed — was announced. 

The new-comer was a man apparently 
about forty years of age, very red in the 
face, with thick hair and heavy red whis- 
kers — strongly inclined to corpulence, 
and clad in clumsy, ill-fitting garments. 

In a very sedate manner, and with a 
strong Norman accent, he informed the 
judge that during the past twenty years 
he had been in the employ of literary 
men — a physician, and a notary ; that he 
was familiar with the duties that Avould 
be required of him in the Palais de Jus- 
tice, and that he knew how to dust pa- 
lmers without disarranging them. 

In short, the man produced such a 
favorable impression, that although he 
reserved twenty-four h5urs in which to 
make further inquiries, the judge drew 
from his pocket a louis, and tendered it 
to him as the first installment of his 
wages. 

But the man, with a sudden change of 
voice ’ and attitude, burst into a hearty 
laugh, and said : 

“Monsieur, do you think that May will 
recognize me?” 

“Monsieur Lecoq!” exclaimed the as- 
tonished judge. 

“The same, sir; and I have come to 
tell you that if you are ready to release 
May, all my arrangements have been 
completed.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

When a judge connected with the tri- 
bunal of the Seine wishes to examine a 
person incarcerated in one of the prisons, 
the following forms are observed : 

He first sends his messenger with what 
is called an order of extraction, an im- 
perative and concise formula, which we 


'•quote, in order to give some idea of the 
unlimited power vested in the magistrates 
who are entrusted with the preparation 
of cases for the government. 

It reads thus : 

“The keeper of the prison will 

give into the custody of the bearer of 

this order, the prisoner known as , 

in order that he may be brought before us 
in our cabinet in the Palais de Justice.” 

No more, no less, a signature, a seal, 
and everybody hastens to obey. 

But from the moment of receiving this 
order to the time that the prisoner is 
again consigned to the keeping of the 
jailer, the superintendent of the prison is 
relieved of all responsibility. Whatever 
may happen, his hands are clean. 

So the journey of the prisoner from 
the prison to the palace is usually at- 
tended with an infinite number of pre- 
cautions. 

They place the prisoner in one of the 
lugubrious vehicles that one sees sta- 
tioned every day on the Quai de l’Hor- 
loge, or the court of the Sainte-Chapelle, 
locking him up carefully in one of the 
compartments. 

This vehicle conveys him to the palace, 
and while he is awaiting his examination, 
he is immured in one of the cells of that 
gloomy prison, familiarly known as “la 
Souriciere” — the mouse-trap. 

On entering and leaving the carriage 
the prisoner is surrounded by guards. 

En route he is also under the watchful 
eye of several guards, some of them 
stationed in the passage-way that divides 
the compartments, others on the seat 
with the driver. 

Mounted guards always accompany the 
vehicle. 

So the boldest malefactors realize the 
impossibility of escape from this moving 
prison-house. 

The statistics show only thirty attempts 
at escape in a period of ten years. 

Of these thirty attempts, twenty-five 
were ridiculous failures. Four were dis- 
covered before their authors had con- 
ceived any serious hope of success. One 
man alone succeeded in making his escape 
from the vehicle, and he had not gone 
fifty steps before he was captured. 

He accepted, boldly, perhaps, but not 
blindly, the struggle that must ensue. 

“But,” thought Lecoq, “if he decides 
to incur these risks he must be reason- 
ably sure that he will succeed in over- 
coming them.” 

Such a belief on the part of May was a 
grave subject of fear for the young detec- 
tive ; but it also gave rise to a delightful 
emotion. He had an ambition beyond his 
station ; and every ambitious man is by 
nature a gambler. 

He felt that his foeman was worthy of 
his steel ; that they had equal chances 
for success. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


97 


Lecnq's plan for allowing May to' 
escape was childish in its simplicity, as 
he himself confessed. It consisted in 
fastening the compartment in which May 
was placed very insecurely, on the de- 
parture of the carriage from the depot, 
and in forgetting him entirely when the 
wagon, after depositing its load of crim- 
inals at the “mouse-trap,” went, as usual, 
to await upon the quay the hour for re- 
turning them to the prison. 

It was scarcely possible that the pris- 
oner would fail to embrace this oppor- 
tunity to make his escape. 

All Avas, therefore, prepared and ar- 
ranged, in conformance with Lecoq’s di- 
rections, on the day indicate l — the Mon- 
day following the close of the Easter 
holidays. 

“The order of “extraction” was in- 
trusted to an intelligent man, with the 
most minute instructions. 

The prison-van containing the prisoner 
May, would not arrive at the palace until 
noon. 

And yet at nine o’clock there might 
have been seen hanging about the pre- 
fecture one of those old gamins , who 
make one almost believe in the fable of 
Venus rising from the waves, so truly 
do they seem born of the foam and scum 
of the city. 

He was clad in a tattered black woolen 
blouse, and in large, ill-fitting trousers, 
fastened about his waist by a leather 
band. His boots betrayed a familiar ac- 
quaintance with the mud-puddles of the 
suburbs, his cap was shabby and dirty; 
but his pretentiously-tied red-silk cravat 
must have been a gift from his sweet- 
heart. 

He had the unhealthy complexion, the 
hollow eyes, the slouching mien, the 
straggling beard common to his tribe. 

His yellow hair was plastered down 
upon his temples, but cut closely at the 
back of the head, as if to save the trouble 
of brushing it. 

On seeing his attire, the way in which 
he balanced himself upon his haunches, 
the movement of his shoulders, his way 
of holding his cigarette and of ejecting 
a stream of saliva from between his teeth, 
Polyte Chupin would have extended his 
hand as to a friend, and greeted him as 
“comrade” and “pal.” 

It was the 14th of April ; the day was 
lovely, the air balmy, the tops of the 
chestnut trees in the garden of the Tuile- 
ries looked green against the horizon, 
and this man seemed well content to be 
alive, and happy in doing nothing. 

He walked lazily to and fro on the 
quay, dividing his attention between the 
passers-by and the men who were haul- 
ing sand from the banks of the Seine. 

Occasionally he crossed the street and 
exchanged a few words with a respec-| 
table elderly gentleman, very neatly 1 

7 


'dressed, and wearing spectacles and a 
very long beard, his hands encased in 
silk gloves. This person exhibited all 
the characteristics of a respectable, well- 
to-do gentleman, and seemed to feel a 
remarkable curiosity in regard to tho 
contents of an optician’s window. 

From time to time a policeman or one 
of the detective corps passed them on 
his way to make his report ; and the el- 
derly gentleman or the gamin often ran 
after him to ask some information. 

The person addressed replied and 
passed on; and then the two confreres 
joined each other to laugh and say : 

“Good ! — there is another Avho does not 
recognize us.” 

And they had just cause for exultation ; 
and good reason to be proud. 

Of the twelve or fifteen comrades whom 
they had accosted, not one had 
recognized their colleagues, Lecoq and 
Father Absinthe. 

For it was indeed they, armed and 
equipped for the chase, for the pursuit 
whose chances and result it was impossi- 
ble to foresee. 

“Ah! I am not surprised that they do 
not recognize me,” said Father Absinthe, 
“since I cannot recognize myself. No 
one but you, Monsieur Lecoq, could have 
so transformed me.” 

But the time for reflection was past ; 
the time for action had come. 

The young detective saw the prison van 
crossing the bridge at a brisk trot. 

“Attention !” he said to his companion, 
“there comes our friend! Quick — to 
your post ; remember my directions, aqd 
keep your eyes open !” 

Near them, on the quay, Avas a huge 
pile of timber. Father Absinthe went 
and hid himself behind it ; and Lecoq, 
seizing a spade that was lying idle, hur- 
ried to a little distance and began digging 
in the sand. 

They did well to make haste. The van 
came onward and turned the corner. 

It passed the tAvo men, and with a 
noisy clang rolled under the heavy arch 
that led to“la Souriciere.” 

May Avas inside. 

Lecoq Avas sure of this when he saAV 
the keeper, who was seated in the vehi- 
cle. 

The carriage remained in the court- 
yard for more than a quarter of an hour. 

When it reappeared in the street, the 
driver had descended from his seat and 
was leading the horses by the bridle. 
He stationed the carriage opposite the 
Palais de Justice, threAv a covering over 
his horses, lighted his pipe, and Avalked 
away. 

For a moment the anxiety of the two 
watchers amounted to actual agony; 
nothing stirred — nothing moved. 

But at last the door of the carriage was 
opened with infinite caution, and a pale, 


98 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


frightened face became visible. It was 
the face of May. 

The prisoner cast a rapid glance 
around ; no one was in sight. 

With the quickness of a cat, he sprang 
to the ground, noiselessly closed the 
door of the vehicle, and walked quietly 
in the direction of the bridge. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Lecoq breathed again. 

He had been asking himself if some 
trifling circumstance could have been 
forgotten or neglected, and thus dis- 
arranged all his plans. 

He had been wondering if this strange 
man would refuse the dangerous liberty 
which had been offered him. 

“Foolish disquietude! May had fled; 
not thoughtlessly, but premeditatedly. 

From the moment when he was left 
alone and apparently forgotten in the in- 
securely locked compartment, to the 
instant when he opened the door, suffi- 
cient time had elapsed to give a man of 
his intellect and clearness of discernment 
ample opportunity to analyze and calcu- 
late all the chances of so grave a step. 

Hence, if he stepped into the snare 
that had been laid for him, it would be 
with a full knowledge of the risks he 
must be prepared to run. 

They were alone together, free in the 
streets of Paris, armed with mutual dis- 
trust, obliged alike to resort to strategj\ 
forced to hide from each other. 

Lecoq, it is true, had an auxiliary — 
Father Absinthe. But who could say 
that May would not be aided by his re- 
doubtable accomplice? 

It was then a veritable duel, whose 
result depended entirely upon the cour- 
age, skill and coolness of the antagonists. 

All these thoughts flashed through the 
young man’s biain with the quickness of 
lightning. 

He threw down his spade, and running 
to a policeman, who was just coming out 
of the palace, he gave him a letter which 
he held ready in his pocket. 

“Take this to M. Segmuller, at once; 
it is a matter of importance,” said he. 

The officer attempted to question this 
gamin who was in correspondence with 
the magistrates ; but Lecoq had already 
darted oft' in the footsteps of the pris- 
oner. 

May had gone only a little distance. 
He was sauntering along, with his hands 
in his pockets, his head high in the air, 
his manner composed and full of assur- 
ance. 

Had he reflected that it would be dan- 
gerous to run while near the prison from 
which he had just made his escape? Or 
had he decided that, since they had given 


him this opportunity to escape, there was 
no danger that they would arrest; him 
immediately? 

Nor did he quicken his pace when he 
had crossed the bridge ; and it was with 
the same tranquil manner that he had 
crossed the Quai aux Fleurs and turned 
into the Rue de la Cite. 

Nothing in his bearing or appearance 
proclaimed him an escaped prisoner. 
Since his trunk — that famous trunk 
which he pretended to have left at the 
Hotel de Mariembourg — had been re- 
turned to him, he had been well supplied 
with clothing; and he never failed, when 
summoned before the judge, to array 
himself in his best apparel. 

He wore that day, a coat, vest, and 
pantaloons of black cloth. One, to see 
him, would have supposed him a working 
man of the better class, oft' on a holiday 
excursion. 

But when, after crossing the Seine, he 
reached the Rue St. Jacques, his manner 
changed. His tread, perfectly assured 
until then, became uncertain, lie walked 
slowly, looking to the right and to the 
left, studying the signs. 

“Evidently he is seeking something,” 
thought Lecoq; “but what?” 

It was not long before he discovered. 

Seeing a shop where second-hand cloth- 
ing was sold, May entered in evident 
haste. 

Lecoq stationed himself in a port?, 
cochere on the opposite side of the street, 
and pretended to be busily engaged light- 
ing a cigarette ! Father Absinthe thought 
he could approach without danger. 

“Ah, well, monsieur; here is our man 
changing his fine clothing for coarser 
garments. He will demand money in 
return; and they will give it to him. 
You told me this morning: ‘“May without 
a sow’ — that is the trump card in our 
game !” 

“Nonsense! Before we begin to 
lament, let us wait and see what will 
happen. It is not likely that the shop- 
keeper will give him the money. He will 
not buy clothing of every passer-by.” 

Father Absinthe withdrew to a little 
distance. He distrusted these reasons, 
but not Lecoq who gave them to him. In 
his secret soul Lecoq was cursing him- 
self. 

Another blunder ; another weapon left 
in the hands of the enemy. How was it 
that he, who thought himself so shrewd, 
had not foreseen this?” 

His remorse was less poignant when he 
saw May emerge from the store as he had 
entered it. 

Luck, of which he had spoken to 
Father Absinthe, without believing in it, 
had for once been in his favor. 

The prisoner actually staggered when 
he stepped out upon the pavement. His 
countenance betrayed the terrible anguish 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


99 


of a drowning man when he sees the 
frail plank which was his only hope of 
salvation torn from his grasp. 

He gave a peculiar whistle, which was 
the signal agreed upon to warn his com- 
panion that he abandoned the pursuit to 
him ; and having received a similar signal 
in response, he entered the shop. 

But what had taken place? Lecoq 
wished to know. 

The merchant was still standing at his 
counter. Lecoq wasted no time in par- 
leying. He merely showed his card to 
acquaint the man with his profession, 
and curtly demanded the desired infor- 
mation. 

“What did the man want who just left 
here ?” 

The merchant seemed troubled. 

“It is a long story,” he stammered. 

“Tell it !” ordered Lecoq, surprised at 
the man's embarrassment. 

“Oh, it is very simple. About twelve 
days ago, a man entered my store with a 
bundle under his arm. He claimed that 
he was a countryman of mine.” 

“Are you an Alsatian?” 

“Yes, sir. Well, I went with this man 
to the wine shop on the corner, where he 
ordered a bottle of the best wine; and 
when we had drank together, he asked 
me if I would consent to keep the pack- 
age he had with him until one of his 
cousins came to claim it. To prevent 
any mistake, this cousin was to utter 
certain words — a countersign, as it were, 
I refused, shortly and decidedly, for the 
very month before I had gotten into 
trouble, and had been accused of receiv- 
ing stolen goods, by obliging a person in 
this same way. Well, you never saw a 
man so vexed and so surprised. What 
made me all the more determined in my 
refusal was that he offered me a good 
round sum in payment, for my trouble. 
This only increased my suspicions, and I 
persisted in my refusal.” 

He paused to take breath ; but Lecoq 
was on tire with impatience. 

“And what then?” he insisted. 

“Afterwards the man paid for the wine, 
and went away. I had forgotten all 
about the occurrence, until this man 
came in just now, and asked me if I had 
not a package for him, which had been 
left here by one of his cousins, where- 
upon he uttered some peculiar words — 
the countersign, doubtless. When I re- 
plied that I "had nothing, he turned as 
white as his shirt ; and I thought that he 
was going to faint, All my suspicions 
returned. So when he proposed that I 
should buy his clothing — no; I thank 
you.” 

All this was very plain. 

“And how did this cousin look who 
was here a fortnight ago?” inquired the 
detective. 

“He was a large, and rather corpulent 


man, with a ruddy complexion, and white 
whiskers. Ah! I should recognize him 
in an instant !” 

“The accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing that would interest you. 
Thank you. I am in a hurry. You will 
see me again; good morning.” 

Lecoq had not remained in the store live 
minutes; yet, when he emerged. May 
and Father Absinthe were nowhere to be 
seen. 

But this did not occasion any uneasi- 
ness in Lecoq's mind. 

When making arrangements with his 
old colleague for this pursuit the detec-* 
tive had endeavored to imagine all possi- 
ble difficulties in order to solve them in 
advance. 

The present situation had been forseen. 
And it had been agreed that if one of the 
observers was obliged to remain behind, 
the other, who was closely following 
May, should make chalk marks from 
time to time upon the walls, and upon 
the shutters of the shops, which would 
indicate the route to be followed, and 
enable his companion to rejoin him. 

So, in order to know which way to go, 
Lecoq had only to examine the fronts of 
the buildings around him. 

This task was neither long nor difficult. 

Upon the shutters of the third shop 
above that of the second-hand clothes 
dealer, a superb dash of the crayon told 
Lecoq to turn into the Rue Sainte- 
Jacques. 

The detective rushed on in that direc- 
tion. greatly disquieted. 

His assurance of the morning had re- 
ceived a rude shock! 

What a terrible warning that old clothes 
dealer’s declaration had been! 

And so it was an established fact that 
the mysterious and redoubtable accom- 
plice had proved his marvelous foresight 
by making every possible arrangement 
to ensure his companion's salvation, in 
case he was allowed to escape. 

The subtle penetration of this man 
surpassed the pretended miracles of clair- 
voyants. 

“What did this package contain?*’ 
thought Lecoq. “Clothing, undoubt- 
edly; all the equipments of a complete 
disguise, money, clothing, papers, a 
forged passport.” 

He had reached the Rue Soufflot, and 
paused for an instant to ask his way from 
the walls. 

It was the work of a second. A long 
chalk-mark on the shop of a watchmaker 
pointed to the Boulevard Saint-Miehel. 

The -young man hastened in that di- 
rection. . 

“The accomplice,” he continued, “did 
not succeed in his attempt in the case of 
the old clothes dealer ; but he is not the 
man to be disheartened by one rebuff. 


100 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


lie has certainly taken other measures. 
How shall I divine them, in order to cir- 
cumvent them?” 

The prisoner had crossed the Boule- 
vard Saint-Michel, and had then taken 
the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. Father Ab- 
sinthe's dashes of the crayon declared 
this fact with many eloquent flourishes. 

“One circumstance reassures me,” the 
detective murmured ; “May's going to this 
shop, and his consternation on finding 
that there was nothing for him there. 
The accomplice had informed him of his 
plans, but had not been able to inform 
him of the failure. Hence, from this 
hour, the prisoner is left upon his own 
resources. The chain that bound him to 
his accomplice is broken ; there is no 
longer an understanding between them. 
Everything depends now upon keeping 
them apart. That is everything !” 

How much he rejoiced that he had suc- 
ceeded in having May removed to another 
prison. His triumph, in case he did suc- 
ceed. would be the result of this act of 
distrust. He was convinced that this at- 
tempt, on the part of the accomplice, had 
taken place the very evening before May 
was removed to another prison; and this 
explained why it had been impossible to 
warn him of the failure of one plan and 
to substitute another. 

Still following the chalk-marks, Lecoq 
had reached the Odeon. Here — more 
signs ; but he perceived Father Absinthe 
under the gallery. The old man was 
standing before the window of a book- 
store, apparently engrossed in the ex- 
amination of the pictures in an illustrated 
journal. 

Lecoq, assuming the nonchalant man- 
ner of the loafer whose garb he wore, 
took a place beside his colleague. 

“Where is he?” the young man asked. 

“There,” replied his companion, with 
a slight movement of his head towards 
the staircase. 

The fugitive was, indeed, seated upon 
one of the steps of the stone stairs, his 
elbows resting upon his knees, his face 
hidden in his hands, as if he felt the 
necessity of concealing the expression of 
his face from the passers-by. 

Undoubtedly, at that moment, he gave 
himself up for lost. Alone, in the midst 
of Paris, without a penny, what was to 
become of him? 

He knew beyond the shadow of a 
doubt, that he was watched; thaf his 
every step was followed; and he knew 
only too well that the first attempt he 
made to inform his accomplice of his 
whereabouts would cost him his secret — 
the secret which he held as more precious 
than life itself, and which, by immense 
sacrifices, he had thus far been able to 
preserve, 

After contemplating in silence for 
some time this unfortunate man whom 


he could but esteem and admire, after 
a.l, Lecoq turned to his old companion. 

“What did he do on the way,” he en- 
quired. 

“He went into the shops of five dealers 
in second-hand clothing without success. 
Then he addressed a man who was pass- 
ing with a lot of old rubbish on his 
shoulder ; but the man Avould not even 
answer him.” 

Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully. 

“The moral of this is, that there is a 
vast difference between theory and prac- 
tice,” he remarked. “Here is a man who 
has made the most discerning believe 
that he is a poor devil, a low buffoon ; so 
much as he prated of the misfortunes 

and the hazards of his existence He 

is free ; and this so-called Bohemian does 
not know how to go to work to sell the 
clothing that he wears upon his back. 
The comedian who could play his part 
so well upon the stage, disappears; the 
man remains — the man who has always 
been rich, and who knows nothing of the 
vicissitudes of life.” 

He ceased his moralizing, for May had 
risen from his seat. 

Lecoq was only ten paces from him, 
and could see him very p ainly. 

The wretched man's face was livid ; his 
attitude expressed the most profound de- 
jection ; one could read his indecision in 
his eyes. 

Perhaps he was wondering if it would 
not be best for him to go and place him- 
self again in the hands of his jailers, 
since the resources upon which he had 
depended had failed him. 

But, after a little, he shook off the 
torpor that had overpowered him; his 
eye brightened, and, with a gesture of 
defiance, he descended the staircase, 
crossed the open square and entered the 
Rue de PAncienne-Comedie. 

He walked on now with a brisk, deter- 
mined step, like a man who has an aim 
in view. 

“Who knows where he is going now?” 
murmured Father Absinthe, as he trotted 
along by Lecoq's side. 

“1 know,” replied the detective. “And 
the proof is, that I am going to leave 
you, and run on in advance, to prepare 
for his reception. I may be mistaken, 
however, and as it is necessary to be pre- 
pared for any emergency, leave me the 
chalk-marks as you go along. If our 
man does not come to the Hotel de 
Mariembourg, as I think he will, I shall 
come back here to start in pursuit of you 
again.” 

An empty fiacre chanced to be passing ; 
Lecoq entered it and told the coachman 
to drive to the Northern Railway depot 
by the shortest route, and as quickly as 
possible. 

He had little time to spare, so while 
he was on the way he profited by the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


101 


opportunity to pay the driver and tor 
search in his note book, among the docu- 
ments confined to him by M. Segmuller, 
for the particular paper that he wanted. 

The carriage had scarcely stopped be- 
fore Lecoq was on the ground and run- 
ning towards the hotel. 

As on the occasion of his first visit, he 
found Madame Milner standing upon a 
chair before the cage of her starling, ob- 
stinately repeating her German phrase, 
to which the bird with equal obstinacy 
responded: “Camille! where is Ca- 

mille?” 

In seeing the rather questionable-look- 
ing individual who invaded her hotel, 
the pretty widow did not deign to 
change her position, 

“What do you want !” she demanded, 
in a rather discouraging tone. 

“I am the nephew of a messenger in 
the Palais de Justice,” Lecoq responded, 
with an awkward bow, entirely in 
keeping with his attire. “On going to 
see my uncle this morning, I found him 
laid up with the rheumatism; and he 
asked me to bring you this paper in his 
stead. It is a citation for you to appear 
at once before the judge of instruction. 

This reply induced Mine. Milner to 
abandon her perch. She took the paper 
and read it. It was, indeed, as this sin- 
gular messenger had said. 

“Very well,” she responded; “give me 
time to "throw a shawl over my shoulder 
and I will obey.” 

Lecoq withdrew with another awk- 
ward bow; but he had not crossed the 
treshold before a significant grimace be- 
traved his inward satisfaction. 

She had duped him once, now he had 
repaid her. 

He crossed the street, and seeing on 
the corner of the Rue Saint-Quentin a 
house in process of construction, he con- 
cealed himself there, waiting. 

“Time to slip on my bonnet and shawl, 
and I will start !” 

Madame Milner had replied thus. But 
she was forty years of age, a widow, a 
blonde, very pretty, and very agreeable 
still, at least in the opinion of the com- 
missioner of police in that quarter, so she 
required more than ten minutes to tie the 
strings of her blue velvet bonnet. 

At the thought that May might arrive 
at any moment, Lecoq felt a cold perspi- 
ration issue from the pores of his entire 
body. 

How much was he in advance of the 
fugitive? A half hour, perhaps! And 
he had accomplished only half of his 
task. 

The shadow of each passer-by made 
him shudder. 

At last the coquettish mistress of the 
hotel made her appearance as radiant as 
a spring morning. 

She probably wished to make up for 


the time spent in making her toilet, for 
as she turned the corner she began to 
run. 

As soon as she was out of sight, the 
young detective bounded from his place 
of concealment, and burst into the Hotel 
de Mariembourg like a bomb-shell. 

Fritz, the Bavarian lad, must have 
been warned that the house was to be 
left in his sole charge for some hours, 
and — he was guarding it. 

He was comfortably established in his , 
mistress’s own particular arm-chair, his 
legs resting upon another chair, and he 
was already sound asleep. 

“Wake up I” shouted Lecoq; “wake 
up!” 

At the sound of this voice, which rang 
like a trumpet blast, Fritz sprang to his 
feet frightened half out of his wits. 

“You see that I am an agent of the 
prefecture of police,” said the visitor, 
showing his badge, “and if you wish to 
avoid all sorts of disagreeable things, 
the least of which will be a sojourn in 
prison, you must obey me.” 

The boy trembled in every limb. 

“I will obey,” he stammered. “But 
what am I to do?” # 

“A very little thing. A man is coming 
here in a moment; you will know him by 
his black clothes, and by his long beard. 
You must reply to him word for word, 
as I tell you. And remember, if you 
make any mistake, even an involuntary 
one, you will suffer for it.” 

“You may rely upon me, sir,” replied 
Fritz. “I have an excellent memory.” 

The prospect of a prison had terrified 
him into abject submission. He spoke 
the truth; one might have asked any- 
thing of him. 

Lecoq profited by this disposition; 
and with clearness and conciseness he 
told the lad what he was to do. 

When he had finished his explanation, 
he added : 

“Now, I wish to see and hear. Where 
can I hide myself?” 

Fritz pointed to a glass door. 

“In the dark room there, sir. By 
leaving the door ajar you can hear, and 
you can see everything’ through the 
glass.” 

Without a word Lecoq darted into 
the room designated, for the spring-bell 
on the outer door announced the arrival 
of some visitor. 

It was May. 

“I desire to speak to the mistress of 
this hotel,” he said. 

“Which mistress?” 

“The woman who received me when I 
came here six weeks ago ” 

“I understand,” interrupted Fritz; “it 
is Mme. Milner whom you wish to see. 
You come too late; she no longer owns 
this house. She sold it about a month 


102 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


ago, and has returned to her former 
home, Alsace.” 

The man stamped his foot with a terri- 
ble oath. 

“I have a claim to make upon her,” he 
insisted. 

“Do you wish me to call her succes- 
sor?” 

In his place of concealment, Lecoq 
could not help admiring Fritz, who was 
uttering these glaring falsehoods with 
that air of perfect candor which gives 
the Germans such an advantage over 
people of the south, who seem to be 
lying even when they are telling the 
truth. 

“The successor will send me walking!” 
exclaimed May. U I came to reclaim the 
money I paid for a room which I have 
never used.” 

“Such money is never refunded.” 

The man muttered some incoherent 
threat, in which such words as “evident 
stealing’ and “justice” could be distin- 
guished ! then he went out, slamming the 
door violently behind him. 

“Well!” did I answer properly?” 
Fritz triumphantly demanded, as Lecoq 
emerged from his hiding place. 

“Yes, perfectly,’* replied the detective. 

And pushing aside the boy, who was 
standing in his way, he dashed after 
May. 

A vague fear almost suffocated him. 

It had struck him that the fugitive had 
not been either surprised or deeply af- 
fected by the news he had heard. He 
had come to the hotel depending upon 
Madame Milner's aid; the news of the 
departure of this woman, who was the 
confidential friend of his accomplice, 
might reasonably be expected to terrify 
him. 

Had he divined the ruse that had been 
played upon him ? And how? 

His good sense told him so plainly 
that the fugitive must have been put on 
his guard that Lecoq's first question, on 
rejoining Father Absinthe, was : 

‘‘May spoke to some one on his way to 
the hotel.” 

“Why, how could you know that?” 
exclaimed the worthy man, greatly as- 
tonished. 

“Ah ! I was sure of it ! To whom did 
he speak !” 

“To a very pretty woman, upon my 
word ! — fair and plump as a partridge.” 

Lecoq turned green with anger. 

“Fate is against us!” he exciaimed 
with an oath. “I run on in advance to 
Madame Milner’s house, so that May 
shall not see her. I invent an excuse for 
sending her out of the hotel, and they 
encounter each other. 

Father Absinthe gave a despairing 
gesture. 

“Ah ! if I had known !” he murmured ; 


“but you did not tell me to prevent May 
from speaking to the passers-by.” 

“Never mind, my old friend, said Le- 
coq, consolingly ; “it could not have been 
helped.” 

The fugitive had reached the Faubourg 
Montmartre, and his pursuers were 
obliged to hasten forward and get 
closer to their man, that they might not 
lose him in the crowd. 

When they had almost overtaken him : 

“Now,” resumed Lecoq, “give me the 
details. Where did they meet?” 

“On the Rue-Saint-Quentin.” 

Which saw the other first?” 

“May.” 

“What did the woman say?” Did you 
hear any cry of surprise !” 

“I heard nothing, because I was quite 
fifty paces from them ; but by the wo- 
man’s manner, I could see that she was 
stupefied. 

Ah ! if Lecoq could have witnessed the 
scene, what valuable deductions he would 
have drawn from it ! 

“Did they talk for a long time?” 

“For less than a quarter of an hour.” 

“Do you know whether Mme. Milner 
gave May money, or not?” 

“I cannot say. They gesticulated like 
mad — so violently, indeed, that I thought 
they were quarreling.” 

They knew they were watched, and 
they were endeavoring to divert sus- 
picion. 

“H they would only arrest this woman 
and question her,” suggested Father Ab- 
sinthe. 

“What good would it do? Has not M. 
Segmuller examined and cross-examined 
her a dozen times without drawing any- 
thing from her ! An ! she is a cunning 
one. She would declare that May met 
her and insisted that she should refund 
the ten francs that he paid her for his 
room. We must do our best,” he con- 
tinued, with a sort of resignation. “If 
the accomplice has not been warned al- 
ready, he will soon be told, and we must 
try to keep the two men apart. What 
ruse they will employ, I cannot divine. 
But I know that it will be nothing hack- 
neyed.” 

Lecoq’s presumptions made Father Ab- 
sinthe tremble. 

“The surest way, perhaps, would be to 
lock him up again !” 

“No !” replied the detective. “I desire 
his secret ; I will have it. What will be 
said of us, if we two allow this man to 
escape us? He will not, I think, be visi- 
ble and invisible by turns, like the devil. 
We will see what he is going to do now 
that he has money and a plan — for he 
has both at the present moment. I 
would stake my right hand upon it.” 

| At that same instant, as if the prisoner 
intended to convince Lecoq of the truth 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


103 


of his suspicions, he. entered a tobacco 
store, and emerged, an install after- 
wards, with a cigar in his mouth. 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

The mistress of the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg had given May money ; the pur- 
chase of this cigar proved it conclu- 
sively, 

But had they agreed upon any plan? 
Had they had time to decide, point by 
point, upon the method to be employed 
in evading the pursuers ? 

It would seem so, since the conduct of 
the fugitive had changed in more respects 
thah one. 

Until now, he had appeared to care lit- 
tle for the danger of being pursued and 
overtaken; but after his meeting with 
Mme. Milner, he seemed uneasy and agi- 
tated. After walking so long in the full 
sunlight, with his head high in the air, 
he appeared to have been seized by a sort 
of panic ; and he now slunk along in the 
shadow of the houses, hiding himself as 
much as possible. 

“It is evident that the man's fears are 
augmented by reason of his hopes,” said 
Lecoq to his companion. “He was total- 
ly discouraged in the Odeon ; the merest 
trifle would have decided him to surren- 
der himself; now he thinks he has a 
chance to escape with his secret.” 

The fugitive had followed the boule- 
vard as far as the Place Vendome; he 
crossed it, and turned towards the Tem- 
ple. 

Soon after, Father Absinthe and his 
companion saw him conversing with one 
of those importunate merchants who con- 
sider everjr passer-by their lawful prey. 

The dealer set a price on an article, 
and May feebly demurred ; but he finally 
yielded, and disappeared in the shop. 

‘‘He has determined on a change of 
costume. Is it not always the first im- 
pulse of an escaped prisoner?” remarked 
Lecoq. 

Soon May emerged from the store, met- 
amorphosed from head to foot. 

He was now clad in heavy dark-blue 
linen pantaloons, and a loosely fitting 
coat of rough woolen material. A gay 
silk ’kerchief was knotted about his 
throat ; and upon his head was a soft cap 
with a visor : this he had perched rakish- 
ly over one ear. 

Really, he was but little more prepos- 
sessing in his appearance than Lecoq him- 
self. One would have hesitated before 
deciding which of the two men one 
would prefer to meet in the depths of a 
lonely forest. 

He seemed content with his transform- 
ation. and appeared more at ease in his 
new attire. There was evident suspicion 


in the glance he cast around him, as if 
he were endeavoring to discover which 
persons among the crowd were charged 
with watching him, and wresting his se- 
cret from him. 

He had not parted with his broadcloth 
suit; he was carrying it under his arm, 
wrapped in a handkerchief. He had 
bought, but had not sold : he had dimin- 
ished his capital, and not augmented it. 
He had left only his tall silk hat. 

Lecoq wished to enter the store and 
make some inquiries ; but he felt that it 
would be an act of imprudence on his 
part, for May had settled his cap upon 
his head with a gesture that left no doubt 
of his intentions. 

A second after he turned into the Rue 
du Temple. Now the chase began in ear- 
nest ; and soon the two pursuers had all 
they could do to follow their man, who 
seemed endowed with the agility of a 
deer. 

May had probably lived in England 
and in Germany, since he spoke the lan- 
guage of these countries like a native; 
but one thing was certain — he knew Paris 
as thoroughly as the oldest Parisian. 

This was demonstrated by the way in 
which he dashed into the Rue des Grav- 
illiers, and the precision of his course 
through the multitude of winding streets 
that lie between the Rue du Temple and 
the Rue Beaubourg. 

He seemed to know this quarter per- 
fectly ; as well, indeed, as if he had spent 
half his life there. He knew all the pub- 
lic houses that had two outside doors — 
all the by-ways and tortuous lanes. 

Twice he almost escaped his pursuers ; 
once his salvation hung upon a thread. 
If he had remained fn an obscure corner, 
where he was completely hidden, only 
an instant longer, the two detectives 
would have passe.d him, and his safety 
would have been assured. j 

The pursuit presented immense difficul- 
ties. Night was coming on, and with it 
that light fog which almost invariably 
follows the earliest days of spring. The 
street-lamps glimmered luridly in the 
mist, without throwing their light any 
considerable distance. 

And to add to these difficulties, the 
streets were now thronged with work- 
men who were returning home after the 
labors of the day, with housewives 
purchasing provisions for supper; and 
around every house its numerous occu- 
pants were swarming like bees around 
their hive. 

May took advantage of every oppor- 
tunity to mislead the persons who might 
be following him. Groups of people, 
collisions between carriages, he utilized 
them all with such marvellous presence 
of mind and such rare skill, that he often 
glided through the crowd without leav- 
ing any sign of his passage. 


101 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


At last he left the Rue des Gravilliers 
and entered a broader street. Reaching 
the Boulevard de Sebastopol, he turned 
to the left, and took a fresh start. 

He darted on with marvelous rapidity, 
his elbows pressed closely to his body, 
husbanding his breath, and timing his 
steps with the precision of a dancing- 
master. 

Stopping for nothing, without once 
turning his head, he hurried on. 

And it was with the same regular but 
rapid pace that he went down the Boule- 
vard de Sebastopol, that he crossed the 
Place du Chatelet, and again entered the 
Boulevard Saint-Michel. 

Some fiacres were stationed near by. 

May addressed one of the drivers, and 
after a few moments conversation entered 
his carriage. 

The fiacre started off at a rapid pace. 

But May was not in it. He h:id only 
passed through the carriage, and just as 
the driver was starting on an imaginary 
route which had been paid for in advance. 
May slipped into another vehicle, which 
was standing beside the fiacre he had 
hired first, and the carriage left the stand 
at a gallop. 

Perhaps, after so many ruses, after 
such a formidable effort, after this last 
stratagem — perhaps May believed that he 
was free. He was mistaken. 

Behind the fiacre which bore him on- 
ward, leaning back upon the cushion to 
rest — a man was running. It was Le- 
coq. 

Poor Father Absinthe had fallen by 
the way. Before the Palais de Justice 
he paused, exhausted and breathless, and 
Locoq had little hope of seeing him 
again, since he had all he could do to 
keep his man in sight, without stopping 
to make the chalk-marks agreed upon. 

May had ordered his coachman to 
carry him to the Place d'ltalie ; and had 
requested him to stop exactly in the 
middle of the square. This was about a 
hundred paces from the station-house in 
which he had been incarcerated with the 
Widow Chupin. 

When the carriage stopped he sprang 
to the ground, and cast a rapid glance 
around him, as if looking for some 
dreaded shadow. 

He saw nothing. Although surprised 
by the sudden checking of the vehicle, 
the detective had yet had time to fling 
himself flat on his stomach under the 
body of the carriage, though not without 
danger of being crushed by the wheels. 

More and more reassured, apparently, 
May paid the coachman, and retraced 
his course to the Rue Mouffetard. 

With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet 
again, and started after him, as eagerly 
as a ravenous dog follows a bone. He 
had reached the shadow cast by the large 


trees in the outer boulevards, when a 
faint wmstle resounded in his ears. 

“Father Absinthe!” he exclaimed, sur- 
prised and delighted. 

“The same. ’ replied that good man, 
“and quite rested, thanks to a good fel- 
low who was passing in a wagon and 
who picked me up and brought me 
here ” 

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq. 
“Let us keep our eyes open.” 

May stopped before first one and then 
another of the numerous saloons in that 
locality. He seemed to be looking for 
something. 

After peering through the glass doors 
of three of these establishments, he en- 
tered the fourth. 

The glass was not glazed ; and the two 
detectives looked through the panes with 
all their eyes. 

They saw the prisoner cross the room 
and seat himself at a table, where a man 
of unusual size, ruddy-faced and gray- 
whiskered, was already seated. 

“The accomplice!” murmured Father 
Absinthe. 

Was this really the redoubtable accom- 
plice? 

Under other circumstances Lecoq 
would have hesitated to place dependence 
on a vague similarity in personal appear- 
ance; but here probabilities were so 
strongly in favor of Fa her Absinthe’s 
assertion that the young detective admit- 
ted its truth at once. 

Was not this meeting the logical se- 
quence, the manifest result of the chance 
meeting between the fugitive and the 
fair-haired mistress of the Hotel de 
Mariembourg ! 

“May,” thought Lecoq, “began by 
taking all the money Mine. Milner had 
about her ; he afterwards charged her to 
tell his accomplice to come and wait for 
him in some saloon near here. If he 
hesitated and looked in the different es- 
tablishments ; it was only because he had 
not been able to specify exactly which 
one. If they do not throw aside the 
mask, it will be because May is not sure 
that he has eluded pursuit,' and because 
the accomplice fears that Mine. Milner 
has been folio wed.” 

The accomplice, if it was really the ac- 
complice, had resorted to a disguise not 
unlike that adopted by May and Lecoq. 
He wore a dirty old blue blouse, and a 
hideous old slouch hat, really in tatter-. 
He had rather exaggerated his make-up, 
for his sinister physiognomy was notice- 
able, even among the depraved and fero- 
cious faces of the other denizens of the 
saloon. 

For it was a regular den of cut-throats 
and of thieves that they had chosen for 
j their rendezvous. There were not four 
workmen there who were worthy of the 
name. All the men who were eating and 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


105 


drinking there, were more or less fami- 
liar with prison life. The least to be 
dreaded were the loafers of the barrieres , 
easily recognized by their glazed caps 
and their loosely-knotted neckerchiefs. 
The majority of the company present 
were made up of this class. 

And yet May, that man who was so 
strongly suspected of belonging to the 
highest social sphere, seemed to be per- 
fectly at home. 

He called for the regular dinner and a 
portion of wine, and literally devoured 
it, gulping down his soup, and great 
morsels of beef, and wiping his mouth 
upon the back of his sleeve. 

But was he conversing with his neigh- 
bor? It was impossible to discern this 
through the glass obscured by smoke and 
steam. 

“I must go in,” said Lecoq, resolutely. 
“I must get a place near them, and 
listen.” 

“Do not think of doing it,” said Father 
Absinthe. “What if they should recog- 
nize you !” 

“They will not recognize me.” 

“If they do, they will kill you.” 

Lecoq made a careless gesture. 

“I really think that they would not 
hesitate to rid themselves of me at any 
cost. But. nonsense ! A detective who is 
afraid to risk his life is no better than a 
low spy. Why ! you saw that Gevrol, 
even, did not flinch.” 

Perhaps the old man had wished to as- 
certain if his companion’s courage was 
equal to his shrewdness and sagacity. 
He was satisfied on this score now. 

“You, my friend, will remain here to 
follow them if they leave hurriedly,” 
added Lecoq. 

He had already turned the knob of the 
door; he pushed it open, entered, and 
taking a seat at a table near that occupied 
by the fugitive, he demanded a chop and 
a dram in a hoarse, guttural voice. 

The fugitive and the man in the slouch 
hat were talking, but like strangers who 
had met by chance, and not at all like 
friends who had met at a rendezous. 

They were speaking the jargon of their 
pretended rank in life, not that puerile 
slang we find in romances descriptive 
of low life, but that vulgar and obscene 
language which it is impossible to render, 
so changeable and so diverse is the signi- 
fication of its words. 

“What wonderful actors!” thought 
Lecoq; “what perfection! what method! 
IIow I should be deceived if I were not 
absolutely certain !” 

The man in the slouch hat held the 
floor; and he was giving a detailed 
account of the different prisons in 
France. 

He told the character of the superin- 
tendents of the principal prisons, how the j 
discipline was much more severe in this 1 


institution than in some other, and how 
the food at Poissy was worth ten times as 
much as that at Fonte vault. 

Lecoq, having finished his repast, 
ordered a small glass of brandy, and, 
with his back to the wall, and eyes closed, 
he pretended to sleep, and — listened. 

May began talking in his turn ; and he 
narrated his story (exactly as he had re- 
lated it to the judge), from the murder 
up to his escape, without forgetting to 
mention the suspicions regarding his 
identity — suspicions which had afforded 
him great amusement, he said. 

Now, he would be perfectly happy if he 
had money enough to take him back to 
Germany. But he did not possess it, nor 
did he know how to procure it. He had 
not even succeeded in selling the cloth- 
ing which belonged to him, and which he 
had with him in a bundle. 

Thereupon the man in the felt hat' de- 
clared that he had too good a heart to 
leave a comrade in such embarassment. 
He knew, in the very same street, an 
obliging dealer in such articles, and he 
offered to take May there at once. 

May’s only response was to rise, say- 
ing “Let us start.” And they did start, 
with Lecoq still at their heels. 

They walked rapidly on until they 
came to the Rue Fer-a-Moulin then they 
turned into a narrow and dimly-lighted 
alley, and entered a dingy dwelling. 

“Run and ask the concierge if there are 
not two doors by which one can leave 
this house,” said Lecoq, addressing 
Father Absinthe. 

The house, however, had but one en- 
trance, and the two detectives waited. 

“We are discovered!” murmured Le- 
coq. “I am sure of that. The fugitive 
must have recognized me, or the boy at 
the hotel de Mariembourg has described 
me to the accomplice.” 

Father Absinthe made no response, for 
the two men just then came out of the 
house. May was jingling some coins in 
his hand, and seemed to be in very ill- 
humor. 

“What infernal rascals these receivers 
of stolen goods are !” he grumbled. 

Though he had received only a small 
sum for his clothing, he probably felt 
that the kindness of his companion ought 
to be rewarded, for May proposed that 
they should take a drink together, and 
they entered a wine-shop near by, for 
that purpose. 

They remained there more than an 
hour, drinking together, and left that 
only to enter a saloon a hundred paces 
distant. 

Turned out by the proprietor, who was 
closing his store, the friends took refuge 
in the next one that remained open. The 
owner drove them from this, and they 
j hurried to another, then to another. 

And so by drinking of bottles of wine, 


106 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


in very small glasses, they reached the 
Place Saint-Michel about one o’clock in 
the morning. 

But there they found nothing to drink ; 
all the saloons were closed. 

The two men then held a consultation 
together, and, after a short discussion, 
they walked arm-in-arm in the direction 
of the Fabourg Saint-Germain, like a pair 
of friends. 

The liquor which they had imbibed in 
sucli great quantities, seemed to produce 
its effect. They staggered considerably 
as they walked; and they talked very 
loudly and both at the same time. 

In spite of the danger, Lecoq advanced 
near enough to seize some fragments of 
their conversation; and the words “a 
good stroke,” and “money enough to sat- 
isfy one,” reached his ears. 

Father Absinthe's confidence wavered. 

“All this will end badly,” he mur- 
mured. 

“Do not be alarmed,” replied his friend. 
“I do not understand the manoeuvres of 
these wily confederates, I frankly con- 
fess ; but what does that matter after all 
— now that the two men are together, I 
feel sure of success— sure. If one runs 
away, the other will remain, and Gevrol 
shall soon see which is right, he or I.” 

Meanwhile the pace of the two drunken 
men had slackened a trifle. 

By the air with which they examined 
the magnificent residences of the Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain, one would have sus- 
pected them of the worst intentions. 

On the Rue de Varennes, only a few 
steps from the Rue de la Chaise, they 
paused before the low wall that surround- 
ed an immense garden. 

The man in the slouch hat now did the 
talking. He was explaining to May — 
they could tell by his gestures — that the 
mansion to which this garden belonged 
fronted upon the Rue de Grenelle. 

“Bah!” growled Lecoq, “how much 
farther will they carry this nonsense?” 

They carried it to assaulting the place. 

By the aid of his companion's shoulders, 
May raised himself to a level with the 
wall, and an instant after they heard the 
sound of his fall in the garden. 

The man in the slouch hat remained in 
the street to watch. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The enigmatical fugitive had accom- 
plished his strange, his inconceivable de- 
sign so quickly that Lecoq had neither 
the time nor the desire to oppose him. 

His amazement at this unexpected mis- 
fortune was so great that for ten seconds 
it deprived him of the power of thought 
and of motion. 

But he quickly regained his self-pos- 


session, and he decided upon his course 
with that rapidity of decision which is 
the good genius of men of action. 

With a sure eye he measured the dis- 
tance that separated him from May’s 
accomplice, and with three bounds he 
was upon him. 

The man tried to cry out ; an iron hand 
stifled the cry in his throat. He tried 
to escape, and to beat off his assailant, 
but a vigorous kick flung him to the 
ground like an infant. 

Before he had time to think of further 
resistance he was bound, gagged, lifted, 
and carried, half suffocated, around 
the corner of the Rue de la Chaise. 

Not a word, not an exclamation, not an 
oath, not even a sound of scuffling — noth- 
ing. 

Any suspicious noise might have 
reached May, on the other side of the 
wall, and given him warning. 

“How strange !” murmured Father Ab- 
sinthe, too much am tzed to lend a help- 
ing hand to his younger colleague. 
“How strange ! Who would have sup- 
posed ” 

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq, in 
that harsh, imperious voice which immi- 
nent peril always gives to energetic men. 
“Enough ! — we will talk to-morrow. I 
must run away for an instant, and you 
will remain here. If May shows himself, 
capture him ; do not allow him to es- 
cape.” 

“I understand; but what is to be done 
with the man who is lying there?” 

“Let him be where he is. I have bound 
him securely, so there is nothing to fear 
from him. When the night-police pass, 
we will give him into charge ” 

He paused and listened. Not far off, 
they heard heavy and measured foot- 
steps approaching. 

“There they are now,” said Father 
Absinthe. 

“Ah ! I dared not hope it ! I shall have 
a good chance now.” 

He had the opportunity he longed for ; 
two policemen, whose attention had been 
attracted by the group they saw on the 
corner of the street, hastened towards 
him. 

In a few words, Lecoq explained the 
situation. It was decided that one of 
the policemen should take the accomplice 
to the station-house, and that the other 
should remain with Father Absinthe to 
cut off May's retreat. 

“And now,” said Lecoq, “I will run 
round to the Rue de Grenelle and give 
the alarm. To whose house does this 
garden belong?” 

“What !” replied one of the policemen, 
in surprise, * k do you not know the gar- 
dens of the Due de Sairmeuse, the famous 
duke who is a millionaire ten times over, 
and who was formally the friend ” 

“I know, I know !” said Lecoq. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ', 


107 


“The thief must have fallen into a trap! 
if he put his nose in there. They had a 
reception at the mansion this evening, as 
they do every. Monday, and everybody 
in the house is up. The guests have 
scarcely departed. There were five or 
six carriages still at the door as we 
passed.” 

Lecoq darted away, more troubled by 
what he had just heard than he had been 
before. 

He understood now, that if May had 
entered this house, it was not for the 
purpose of committing a robbery, but in 
the hope of throwing his pursuers oft' the 
track, and making his escape through 
the Rue de Grenelle, which he might 
easily have done unnoticed, in the bustle 
and confusion attending the departure 
of the guests. 

This last thought occurred to him on 
reaching the Hotel de Sairmeuse, a prince- 
ly dwelling, whose immense facade was 
brilliantly illuminated. 

The carriage of the last guest was just 
issuing from the court-yard, several foot- 
men were extinguishing the lights, and 
the Swiss, a tall and imposing man, daz- 
zling to behold in his gorgeous livery, 
was just closing the heavy, double doors 
of the grand entrance. 

The detective advanced towards this 
important personage. 

“Is this the Hotel de Sairmeuse?” he 
inquired. 

The Swiss suspended his labors to sur- 
vey this audacious vagabond who ven- 
tured to question him, then in a harsh 
voice : 

“I advise you to pass on. I want none 
of your jesting.” 

Lecoq had forgotten that he was clad 
in the garb affected by Polyte Chupin. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I am not what 
I seem to be. I am an agent of the se- 
cret-service, Monsieur Lecoq. Here is 
my card, if you will take my word for it ; 
and I came to tell you that an escaped 
criminal has just scaled the garden wall 
of the Hotel de Sairmeuse.” 

“A crim-in-al?” 

The detective thought a little exagger- 
ation would do no harm, and perhaps en- 
sure him more ready aid. 

'•Yes,” he replied; “and one of the 
most dangerous kind — an assassin who 
has the blood of three victims already 
on his hands. We have just arrested his 
accomplice, who helped him over the 
wall.” 

The ruby nose of the Swiss paled per- 
ceptibly. 

“1 will summon the servants,” he falt- 
ered. 

And, suiting the action to the word, he 
raised his hand to the bell-rope, which 
was used to announce the arrival of 
visitors; but Lecoq stopped him. 

“A word first 1” said he. “Might not, 


the fugitive have passed through the 
house, and escaped by this door, without 
being seen? In that case he would be 
far away by this time.” 

“Impossible !” 

“But why?” 

“Excuse me ; I know what I am say- 
ing. First, the door opening into the gar- 
den is closed ; it is open only during grand 
receptions, not for our informal Monday 
receptions. Secondly, monseigneur re- 
quires me to stand upon the threshold of 
the door when he is receiving. To-day 
he repeated this order, and you may be 
sure that I have not disobeyed him.” 

“Since this is the case,” said Lecoq, 
slightly reassured, we shall perhaps suc- 
ceed in finding our man. Warn the ser- 
vants, but without ringing the bell. The 
less noise we make, the greater will be 
our chance of success.” 

In a moment the fifty valets who peo- 
pled the ante-chambers, the stables, and 
the kitchens of the Hotel de Sairmeuse 
were gathered together. 

The great lanterns in the coach-houses 
and stables were lighted, and the entire 
garden was illuminated as by enchant- 
ment. 

“If May is concealed here,” thought 
Lecoq, delighted to see so many auxil- 
iaries, “it is impossible for him to es- 
cape.” 

But it was in vain that the gardens 
were thoroughly explored again and 
again; no one was to be found. 

The houses where the gardening tools 
were kept, the green-houses, the summer- 
houses, the two rustic pavilions at the 
foot of the garden, even the dog-kennels, 
were scrupulously visited — in vain. 

The trees, with the exception of the 
horse-chestnut, at the foot of the garden, 
were almost destitute of leaves, but they 
were not neglected on that account. An 
agile boy, armed with a lantern, climbed 
each tree, and explored even the topmost 
branches. 

“The assassin must have gone out 
where he came in,” obstinately repeated 
the Swiss, who had armed himself with a 
huge pistol, and who would not let go 
his hold on Lecoq, fearing an accident, 
perhaps. 

To convince him of his error, it was 
necessary for Lecoq to place himself in 
communication with Father Absinthe 
and the two policemen on the other side 
of the wall, for the man who had taken 
the accomplice to the station-house had 
performed his duty and returned. 

They responded by swearing that they 
had not taken their eyes off the wall, and 
that not so much as a mouse had crossed 
it. 

Until now, their explorations had been 
made in rather a hap-hazard manner, 
each person obeying his own inspiration; 


103 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


but they now recognized the necessity of 
a methodically conducted search. 

Lecoq took such measures that not a 
corner, not a recess, should escape scru- 
tiny. He was dividing the task between 
Ills willing assistants, when a new-comer 
appeared upon the scene. 

It was a grave, smooth-faced gentle- 
man, in the attire of a notary. 

“Monsieur Otto, monseigneur’s first 
valet de cliambre the Swiss murmured 
in Lecoq's ear. 

This important personage came on the 
part of M. le Due (he did not say “mon- 
seigneur”), to inquire the meaning of all 
this uproar. 

When he had received an explanation, 
M. Otto condescended to compliment Le- 
coq on his efficiency, and to recommend 
that the hotel should be searched from 
garret to cellar. These precautions alone 
would allay the fears of Madame la 
Duchesse. 

He then departed ; and the search be- 
gan again with renewed ardor. 

A mouse concealed in the gardens of 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse could not have 
escaped discovery, so minute were the 
investigations. 

Not an object of any size was left un- 
disturbed. The trees were examined 
leaf by leaf, one might almost say. 

Occasionally the discouraged servants 
proposed to abandon the search ; but Le- 
coq urged them on. He ran from one to 
the other, entreating and threatening by 
turns, swearing that he asked only one 
more effort, and that this effort would as- 
suredly be crowned with success. 

Vain promises ! The fugitive could not 
be found. 

The evidence now was conclusive. To 
persist in the search longer would be 
worse than folly. The young detective 
decided to recall his auxiliaries. 

“That is enough,” he said, in a de- 
spondent voice. “It is now certain that 
the murderer is no longer in the garden.” 

Was he cowering in some corner of 
the immense house, white with fear, and 
trembling at the noise made by his pur- 
suers ? 

One might reasonably suppose this to 
be the case ; and such was the opinion of 
all the servants. Above all, such was 
the opinion of the Swiss, who renewed 
with growing assurance his affirmations 
of a few moment’s before. 

“I have not moved from the threshold 
of my door; and I should certainly have 
seen any person who passed out.” 

“Let us go to the house, then,” said 
Lecoq. “But first let me ask my com- 
panion, who is waiting for me in the 
street, to join me. It is unnecessary for 
him to remain there any longer.” 

Father Absinthe responded to the sum- 
mons. All the lower doors were care- 
fully closed and guarded, and the search i 


through the Hotel de Sairmeuse, one of 
the largest and most magnificent resi- 
dences in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, 
began. 

But all the marvels of the universe 
could not have won a single glance or a 
second's attention from Lecoq. All his 
mind— all his thoughts — were engrossed 
by the prisoner. 

It is certain that he traversed the 
superb drawing-rooms, an unrivalled 
picture-gallery, a magnificent dining- 
room, with sideboards groaning beneath 
their load of massive plate, without see- 
ing a single object. 

He went on, hurrying forward the ser- 
vants who were guiding and lighting 
him. He lifted heavy articles of furni- 
ture as easily as he would have lifted a 
feather ; he moved the chairs and sofas ; 
he explored cupboards and wardrobes, 
examined hangings, curtains, and porti- 
eres. 

No search could have been more com- 
plete. From the court-yard to the garret 
not a nook was left unexplored, not a 
corner was forgotten. 

After two hours of continuous work 
Lecoq returned to the first floor. Only 
five or six servants had accompanied him 
on his tour of inspection. The others 
had dropped off one by one, wearying of 
this adventure, which had at first pos- 
sessed the attractions of a pleasure 
party. 

“You have seen everything, gentle- 
men,” declared an old footman. 

“Everything!” interrurpted the Swiss; 
“everything! Certainly not. There are 
the apartments of monseigneur and those 
of Madame la Duchesse still to be ex- 
plored.” 

“Alas!” murmured Lecoq, “what good 
would it do?“ 

But the Swiss had already gone to rap 
gently at one of the doors opening into 
the hall. His interest equalled that of 
the detectives. They had seen the mur- 
derer enter; he had not seen him go out; 
therefore the man was in the hotel, and 
he wished him to be found ; he desired it 
intensely. 

The door opened, and the grave and 
clean-shaven face of Otto, the first valet 
de chambre , showed itself. 

“What the devil do you want?” he de- 
manded in surly tones. 

“To enter monseigneur’s room,” replied 
the Swiss, “in order to see if the fugitive 
has not taken refuge there.” 

“Are you crazy ?” exclaimed the head 
valet de chambre. “Where could they 
have entered here, and how? Besides,! 
cannot suffer Monsieur le Due to be dis- 
turbed. He has been at work all night, 
and he is just going to take a bath to rest 
himself before going to bed.” 
i The Swiss seemed much vexed at this 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


109 


rebuff ; and Lecoq was presenting his ex- 
cuses, when a voice was heard, saying : 

“Let these worthy men do their duty, 
Otto.” 

“Ah! do you hear that !” exclaimed the 
Swiss, triumphantly. 

“Very well, since Monsieur leDuc per- 
mits. That being the case, come in, I 
will light you through the apartments.” 

Lecoq entered but it was only for 
form's sake that he walked through 
the different rooms ; a library, an admira- 
ble writing room, a charming smoking- 
room. 

As he was passing through the bed- 
room, he had the honor of seeing M. le 
Due de Sairmeuse through the half-open 
door of a small, white, marble bath- 
room. 

“Ah, well !” cried the duke, affably, “is 
the fugitive still invisible?” 

“Still invisble, monsieur,” Lecoq re- 
plied respectfully. 

The valet de chambre did not share his 
master’s good humor. 

“I think, gentlemen,” said he, “that 
you may spare yourselves the trouble of 
visiting the apartments of Madame la 
Duchesse. It is a duty which we have 
taken upon ouselves — the women and I 
— and we have looked even in the bureau 
drawers.” 

Upon the landing the old footman, who 
had not ventured to enter his master’s 
apartments, was awaiting the detectives. 

He had doubtless received his orders, 
for he politely inquired if they desired 
anything, and if, after such a fatiguing 
night, they would not find some cold 
meat and a glass of wine acceptable. 

Father Absinthe’s eyes sparkled. He 
probably thought that in this quasi 
royal abode they must have delicious 
things to eat and drink — such viands, 
indeed, as he had never tasted in his life. 

But Lecoq brusquely refused, and left 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse, reluctantly fol- 
lowed by his old companion. 

The poor, disappointed young man was 
eager to be alone. For several hours he 
had been obliged to exert himself to the 
uttermost to conceal his rage and his 
despair. 

May escaped! vanished! evaporated! 
The thought drove him almost mad. 

What he had declared impossible had 
occurred. 

In his confidence and pride, he had de- 
clared that he would answer for the head 
of the prisoner with his own life; and 
the prisoner had escaped him — had slip- 
ped from between his fingers ! 

When he was once more in the street, 
he paused before Father Absinthe, and, 
crossing his arms, demanded : 

“Well! my old friend, what do you 
think of all this?” 

That good man shook his head, and in 


serene unconsciousness of his want of 
tact, responded : 

“I think that Gevrol will chuckle with 
delight.” 

At the name of this, his most cruel ene- 
my, Lecoq bounded from the ground like 
a wounded bull. 

“Oh !” he exclaimed. “Gevrol has not 
won the battle yet. We have lost May ; 
it is a great misfortune ; but his accom- 
plice remains in our hands. We hold 
this crafty man who has until now de- 
feated all our carefully arranged plans. 
He is certainly shrewd and devoted to 
his friend ; but we will see if his devo- 
tion will withstand the prospect of hard 
labor in the penitentiary. And that is 
what awaits him, if he is silent, and if he 
thus accepts the responsibility of aiding 
and abetting the prisoner’s escape. Oh ! 
I have no fears — M. Segmuller will know 
how to draw the truth out of him.” 

He brandished his clenched fist with a 
threatening air; then, in calmer tones, he 
added : 

“But let us go to the station-house 
where he was carried. I wish to ques- 
tion him a little.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

It was not daylight, and nearly six 
o’clock ; and when Father Absinthe and 
his companion reached the station house, 
they found the superintendent seated at 
a small table, making out his report. 

He did not move when they entered, 
failing to recognize them under their 
disguise, 

But when they mentioned their names, 
the chief rose with evident empressement, 
and extended his hand. 

“Upon my word!” said he, “I con- 
gratulate you on your capture last 
night.” 

Father Absinthe and Lecoq exchanged 
an anxious look. 

“What capture?” they both asked in a 
breath. 

“The individual whom you sent me 
last night so carefully bound. 

“Well?” 

The superintendent burst into a hearty 
laugh. 

“So you are ignorant of your good for- 
tune. Ah! luck has favored you, and 
you will receive a very handsome re- 
ward.” 

“Pray tell us what we have captured?” 
demanded Father Absinthe, impatiently. 

“A scoundrel of the deepest dye, an 
escaped convict, who has been missing 
for three months. You must have a de- 
scription of him ki your pocket — Joseph 
Couturier, in short.” 

On hearing these words, Lecoq became 
so frightfully pale that Father Absinthe, 


110 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


believing him to be about to fall, ex- 
tended his arms. 

Some one hastened to bring a chair, 
and he seated himself. 

“Joseph Couturier,” he faltered, evi- 
dently unconscious of what he was 
saying. “Joseph Couturier ! an escaped 
convict !” 

The superintendent certainly did not 
understand Lecoq’s agitation, any better 
than he understood Father Absinthe's 
discomfited air. 

“You have reason to be proud of your 
work ; your success will make a sensa- 
tion this morning. You have captured a 
famous prize. I can see Gevrol’s nose 
now, when he hears the news. Only 
yesterday he was boasting that he alone 
was capable of securing this dangerous 
rascal.” 

What irony could be more bitter than 
these compliments, after such an irre- 
parable failure. They fell crushingly 
upon Lecoq, like so many blows of a 
hammer, wounding him so cruelly that 
he rose, and summoning all his energy, 
he said : 

“You must be mistaken. This man is 
not Couturier.” 

“I am not mistaken ; you may be as- 
sured of that. In every respect he an- 
swers the description appended to the 
circular ordering his capture. Even the 
little finger of his left hand is lacking, 
as mentioned in the order.” * 

“Ah ! that is a proof indeed !” groaned 
Father Absinthe. 

“It is indeed. And I know another 
even more conclusive. Couturier is an 
old acquaintance of mine. I have had 
him in custody before ; and he recognized 
me last night as I recognized him.” 

After this, further argument was im- 
possible ; so it was in an entirely different 
tone that Lecoq remarked : 

“At least, my friend, you will allow 
me to address a few questions to your 
prisoner.” 

“Oh! as many as you like. But first, 
let us bar the door and place two of my 
men before it. This Couturier has a 
fondness for the open air, and he would 
not hesitate to dash out our brains if he 
saw a chance of escape.” 

After taking these precautions, the 
man was removed from the cage in 
which he had been confined. 

He advanced smilingly, having already 
recovered that nonchalant manner com- 
mon to old offenders who, when they are 
once in custody, seem to lose all feeling 
of anger against the police ; like gamb- 
lers who, having lost all, shake hands 
with their adversary. 

He at once recognized Lecoq. 

“Ah! it is you who did the business 
for me last night. You can boast of hav- 
ing a solid fist I You fell upon me very 


unexpectedly ; and the back of my neck 
is still the worse for your caresses.” 

“Then, if I were to ask a favor of you, 
you would not be disposed to grant it?” 

“Oh, yes! all the same. I have no 
more malice in my composition than a 
chicken; and I rather like your face. 
What do you wish? 

“I should like some information con- 
cerning your companion of last even- 
ing.” 

The man’s face darkened. 

“I really am unable to give it to 
you,” he replied. 

“Why?” 

“Because I do not know him. I never 
saw him until last evening.” 

“It is hard to believe that. One does 
not take the first-comer for an expedition 
like yours last evening. Before under- 
taking such a job with a man, one finds 
out something about him. 

“I do not say that I have not been 
guilty of a stupid blunder. I could mur- 
der myself for it. There was nothing 
about the man to make me suspect that 
he was one of the secret-service. He 
spread a net for me, and I jumped into it. 
It was made for me, of course ; but it 
was not necessary for me to put my foot 
into it.” 

“You are mistaken, my man,” said 
Lecoq. “The individual did not belong 
to the police force. I pledge you my 
word of honor, he did not. 

For a moment Couturier surveyed 
Lecoq with a knowing air, as if he hoped 
to discover whether he were speaking 
the truth or attempting to deceive him. 

“1 believe you,” he said, at last. “To 
prove it I w T ill tell you how it all hap- 
pened. I was dining alone last evening 
in a restaurant on the Rue Mouffetard, 
when that man came in and took a seat 
beside me. Naturally w T e began to talk ; 
and I thought him a very good sort of a 
fellow. Apropos of, I know not what, 
he mentioned the fact that he had some 
clothing which he desired to sell ; and I , 
glad to oblige him, took him to the 
house of a friend, who purchased them 
from him.” 

“It was doing him a service, was it 
not? Well, he offered me something to 
drink, and I returned the compliment, so 
that by midnight I began to see double. 

“He chose his time to propose a plan, 
which would, he swore enrich, us both. 
It was to steal all the silver from a su- 
perb mansion. 

“There would be no risk for me; he 
would take charge of the whole affair. 
I had only to help him over the wall, and 
keep watch. 

“It was tempting— was it not? YY>u 
would have thought so, had you been in 
my place. Still I hesitated. 

“But the man insisted. He swore that 
he was acquainted with the habits of the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


111 


house. That Monday evening was a 
grand gala night there, and that on these 
evenings the servants did not lock up the 
. plate. After a little I consented.” 

A fleeting color tinged Lecoq’s pale 
cheeks. 

Are you sure that the man told you 
that the Due de Sairmeuse received every 
Monday evening?” he asked, eagerly. 

“Certainly; how else could I have 
known it ! He even mentioned the name 
you uttered just now, a name ending in 
— euse.” 

A strange, absolutely admissible 
thought had just flitted through Lecoq’s 
mind. 

“What if it were he?” he said to him- 
self. “What if May and the Due de 
Sairmeuse should be one and the same 
person ?” 

But he dismissed this idea, and despised 
himself for entertaining it, even for a 
moment. 

He cursed his inclination to look upon 
the romantic and impossible side of 
events. Why was it surprising that a 
man of the world, such as he supposed 
May to be, should know the day chosen 
by the Due de Sairmeuse to receive his 
friends? 

He had nothing more to expect from 
Couturier. He thanked him, and after 
shaking hands with the superintendent, 
he departed, leaning on Father Absinthe's 

arm. 

For he really had need of a support. 
His limbs trembled beneath the weight 
of his body ; his head whirled, and he 
felt sick both in body and in mind. 

He had failed miserably, disgracefully. 
He had flattered himself that he pos- 
sessed a genius for his calling, and how 
easy it had been to outwit him. 

May, to rid himself of him, Lecoq, 
had only been obliged to throw him a 
pretended accomplice, picked up by 
chance in a bar-room as a hunter, who 
finds himself too hard pressed by a bear, 
throws him his glove. 

And, like a stupid beast, he had been 
deceived by this commonplace stratagem. 

Father Absinthe was rendered uneasy 
by his colleague's evident dejection. 

“Where are we going?” he inquired; 
“to the Palais de Justice, or to the pre- 
fecture?” 

Lecoq shuddered on hearing this ques- 
tion, which brought him face to face 
with the horrible reality of his situation. 

“To the prefecture!” he responded. 
“Why should I go there ? To expose my- 
self to Gevrol’s insults, perhaps ! I have 
not courage enough for that. Nor do I 
feel that 1 have strength to go to M. Seg- 
muller and say: ‘Forgive me; you have 
judged me too favorably. I am a fool !” 

“What are we to do?” 

“Ah ! I do not know. Perhaps I shall 


embark for America — perhaps I will 
throw myself into the river.” 

He had proceeded about one hundred 
feet, when he stopped short. 

“No !” he exclaimed, with a furious 
stamp of the foot. “No, this affair shall 
not end where it is. I have sworn that 
I will have the solution of this enigma — 
and I will have it !” 

For a moment he reflected ; then, in a 
calmer voice, he added : 

“There is one man who can save 
us, a man who will see what I have not 
been able to see, who will understand 
what I could not understand. Let us 
go and ask counsel of him ; my course 
will depend upon his response — come l” 


CHAPTER XL. 

After a day and a night like those 
through which they had just passed, one 
would have supposed that these two men 
must have felt an irresistible desire to 
sleep. 

But Lecoq was upheld by wounded 
vanity, intense disappointment, and a 
hope of revenge which was not yet extin- 
guished. 

As for Father Absinthe, he was not 
unlike those poor horses attached to a 
hackney coach, and which, having for- 
gotten that there is such a thing as re- 
pose, are no longer conscious of fatigue, 
and travel on until they fail dead. 

He felt that his limbs were failing him ; ‘ 
but Lecoq said : “It is necessary,'’ and so 
he walked on. 

They went to Lecoq’s humble lodgings 
where they laid aside their disguise, and, 
after breakfast, started again. 

It was to the Rue Saint-Lazare, a few 
steps from the prison, that the two men 
repaired. They entered one of the hand- 
somest houses on the street, and inquired 
of the concierge : 

. “Where is M. Tabaret ?” 

“Ah! he is sick.” 

“Very sick?” inquired Lecoq, anxious- 
ly- 

“It is hard to tell,” replied the man ; 
“it is his old trouble — gout.” 

And with an air of hypocritical com- 
miseration, he added : 

“Monsieur is not wise to lead the life 
he does. Women are all very well, but 
at his age ” 

The two detectives exchanged a mean- 
ing glance, and as soon as their backs 
were turned they began to laugh. 

They were still laughing when they 
rang the belfon the next floor. 

The buxom-looking woman who came 
to open the door, informed them that her 
master would receive them, although he 
was confined to his bed. 

“But the doctor is with him now,” she 


112 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


added. “Will the gentlemen wait until 
he has gone?” 

The gentlemen replying in the affirma- 
tive, she conducted them into a hand- 
some library, and invited them to take a 
seat. 

This man whom Lecoq had come to con- 
sult was celebrated for his wonderful 
shrewdness, and his penetration exceeded 
the bounds of possibility. 

He was an old employe of the Mont-de- 
Piete, where he held a position for forty- 
five years, just managing to exist upon 
the meagre stipend he received. 

Enriched suddenly by an unexpected 
bequest, he at once asked for a dismissal, 
and the next day he began to long for 
this very employment that he had so of- 
ten anathematized. 

He endeavored to divert his mind ; he 
began to make a collection of old books ; 
he piled up huge mountains of tattered 
and worm-eaten volumes in immense 
oaken chests. Vain attempts ! He could 
not shake off his ennui. 

He grew thin and yellow ; his income 
of forty thousand francs w'as killing 
him, when a sudden inspiration came to 
his relief. 

It came to him one evening after read- 
ing the memoirs of a celebrated detec- 
tive, one of those men of subtle percep- 
tion, soft as silk, supple as steel, whom 
justice sometimes sets upon the track of 
crime. 

“And I also am a detective!” he ex- 
claimed. 

It was necessary for him to prove it. 

With a feverish interest, which dated 
from that day, he persued every book he 
could find that had any connection with 
such subjects. Letters, memoirs, re- 
ports, pamphlets — everything. 

He was pursuing his education. If a 
crime was committed he started out in 
quest of all the details, and worked up 
the case by himself. 

But these platonic investigations did 
not suffice long. 

One evening, at dusk, he summoned all 
his resolution, and going on foot to the 
prefecture, humbly begged employment 
from the officials there. 

He was not very favorably received ; 
applicants are numerous. But he pleaded 
his cause so adroitly that he was charged 
with some trifling commissions. He 
performed them admirably. The diffi- 
cult step had been taken. 

He was entrusted with others ; and he 
displayed a wonderful aptitude for his 
chosen work. 

The affairs of Madame B , the rich 

banker's wife, made him famous. 

Consulted at a moment when the police 
had abandoned all hope of solving the 
mystery, he proved by A. plus B., by a 
mathematical deduction, so to speak, 


that the dear lady must have stolen from 
herself. 

He had told the truth. 

After that he was always called upon 
for counsel in obscure and difficult cases. 

It would be difficult to tell the status he 
held at the prefecture. When a person 
is employed, salary, compensation of 
some kind is understood; but this 
strange man had never consented to re- 
ceive a penny. 

What he did he did for his own pleas- 
ure — for the gratification of a passion 
which had become his very life — for 
glory, for fame. 

When the funds allowed him seemed 
to him insufficient, he plunged his hands 
into his own pockets ; and the men who 
were working with him never left him 
without carrying with them substantial 
tokens of his munificence. 

Of course, such a man had many ene- 
mies. 

For no compensation, he worked .as 
much and far better than two inspectors 
of police. In cal ling him “spoil-trade,” 
they were not far from right. 

The sound of his name alone almost 
threw Gevrol into convulsions. And 
still the jealous inspector was always 
alluding to an error of which this re- 
markable man had been guilty. 

Inclined to obstinacy, like all enthusi- 
astic men, Father Tabaret had once ef- 
fected the conviction of an innocent man 
— a poor little tailor, who was accused of 
killing his wife. 

This had the effect of cooling his ardor 
very perceptibly; and afterwards he 
seldom visited the prefecture. 

But in spite of that, he remained the 
oracle, like those great lawyers who, 
having become disgusted with practice at 
the bar, still win great and glorious tri- 
umphs in their quiet studies, and lend to 
others the weapons which they no longer 
desire to wield themselves. 

When the authorities were undecided 
what course to pursue, they said : “Let 
us go and consult Tirauclair.” 

For this was the name by which he was 
known : a sobriquet derived from a 
phrase : 

“II faut que cela se tire au clair,” 
which was ever upon his lips. 

Perhaps this sobriquet aided him in 
the concealment of his occupation, which 
none of his personal friends had ever 
suspected. 

His disturbed life when he was work- 
ing up a case, the strange visitors he re- 
ceived, his frequent and prolonged ab- 
sence from home, were imputed to a very 
unseasonable inclination to gallantry on 
his part. 

His concierge was deceived as well as 
his friends. 

# They laughed at his supposed infatua- 
tion ; they called him an old libertine. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


113 


"But people never once suspected that 
lirauclair and Tabaret were one and the 
same person. 

Lecoq was trying to gain hope and 
courage by reflecting upon the history 
of this eccentric man, when the house- 
keeper reappeared, announcing the de- 
parture of the physician. 

At the same time she opened a door and 
said: 

“This is monsieur’s room; these gen- 
tlemen can enter now.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

On a large canopied bed, sweating and 
panting beneath his covers, lay the two- 
faced oracle, Tirauclair, of the prefec- 
ture — Tabaret, of the Rue Saint Lazare. 

It was impossible to believe that the 
owner of this face, in which stupidity 
seemed always disputing with perpetual 
astonishment, could possess superior 
talent, or even an average amount of in- 
telligence. 

With his retreating forehead, and his 
immense ears, his odiously retrousse nose, 
his tiny eyes and coarse, thick lips, M. 
Tabaret presented an excellent picture 
of an ignorant and stupid petty-propri- 
etor. 

When he went into the streets the im- 
pudent gamins shouted after him; but 
his ugliness did not trouble him in the 
least, and he seemed to take pleasure in 
increasing his appearance of stupidity, 
delighting himself with the reflection 
that “he is not really a genius who 
seems to be one.” 

At the sight of the two detectives, 
whom he knew very well, the eyes of 
the sick man sparkled. 

“Good-morning, Lecoq, my boy,” said 
he. “Good-morning, my old Absinthe. 
So you think enough of poor Papa Ti- 
rauclair down there to come and see 
him ?” 

“We need your counsel, Monsieur Ta- 
baret.” 

“Ah ha!” 

“We have just been as completely out- 
witted as if we were two children.” 

“What! was your man so very cun- 
ning?” 

Lecoq heaved a mighty sigh. 

“So cunning,” he replied, “that, if I 
were superstitious, I should say he was 
the very devil himself.” 

The face of the sick man wore a comi- 
cal expression of envy. 

“What ! you have found a treasure like 
that, and you complain!” Why, it is a 
magnificent opportunity — a chance to be 
proud of ! You see, my boys, everything 
lias degenerated in these days. The race 
of great criminals is dying out — only 
their counterfeit remains — a crowd of 

8 


low offenders who are not worth the shoe 
leather expended in pursuing them. It 
is enough to disgust a detective, upon 
my word. No more trouble, emotion, 
anxiety, and excitement. Now, when a 
crime is committed, the criminal is in 
jail the next day. One might take the 
omnibus and go to the culprit's house and 
arrest him. One always finds him— the 
more is the pity. But what has your 
man been doing?” 

“lie has killed three men.” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” said Father Tabaret, 
in three different tones. 

This criminal was evidently superior to 
others of his species. 

“And where did it happen?” 

“In a saloon, near the barriered 

“Oh! yes, I recollect; a man named 
May. The murders were committed in 
the Widow Chupin's cabin. I saw it 
mentioned in the Gazette des Tribunaux , 
and Fanferlot l’Ecureuil, who comes to 
see me, told me that you were strangely 
puzzled about the prisoner's identity. 
So you are charged with investigating 
the affair? So much the better. Tell 
me all about it, and I will aid you with 
all my little power.” 

He suddenly checked himself, and low- 
ering his voice, said : 

“But first do me the favor to rise; wait 
— when I shall make a sign to you, open 
that door there, on the left, very sudden- 
ly. Mariette, my housekeeper, who is 
curiosity itself, is there listening. I hear 
her hair rubbing against the lock— go!” 

The young detective obeyed, and Ma- 
riette, caught in the act, hastened away, 
pursued by her master’s sarcasms. 

“You might have known that you 
could not succeed at that!” he shouted 
after her. 

Though they were much nearer the 
door than Papa Tirauclair, neither Lecoq 
nor Father Absinthe had heard the slight- 
est sound ; and they looked at each other, 
wondering whether their host had been 
playing a little farce for their benefit, or 
whether his sense of hearing really pos- 
sessed the marvelous acuteness which 
this incident would indicate. 

“Now,” said Tabaret, settling himself 
more comfortably upon his pillows — 
“now I will listen to you, my boy. Ma- 
riette will not come back again.” 

On his way to Father Tabaret' s, Lecoq 
had busied himself in preparing his 
story ; and it was in the clearest possible 
manner that he related all the details, all 
the incidents connected with this strange 
affair, from the moment in which Gevrol 
had forced open the door of the Poiv- 
riere, to the instant when May had leaped 
over the garden wall at the Hotel de 
Sairmeuse. 

While Lecoq was telling his story, 
Father Tabaret was transformed. 

His gout was entirely forgotten. 


114 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


According to the different phases of 
the recital, he turned and twisted upon 
his bed, uttered little cries of delight 
or disappointment, or lay motionless, 
plunged in a sort of ecstatic beatitude, 
like an enthusiast in classical music, lis- 
tening to some divine melody of the 
great Beethoven. 

“if I had been there! If only I had 
been there !” he murmured now and then 
through his set teeth. 

' When Leeoq’s story was ended, his 
host gave vent to his enthusiasm. 

“It is beautiful! it is grand!” he ex- 
claimed. “And with just that one sen- 
tence : ‘It is the Prussians who are 
coming,’ for a starting point! Lecoq. 
my boy, I must say that you have con- 
ducted this affair like an angel !” 

“Do you not mean to say like a fool?” 
demanded the discouraged detective. 

“No, my friend, certainly not. You 
have rejoiced my old heart. I can die; I 
shall have a successor. I would like to 
embrace you in the name of logic. Ah ! 
that Gevrol who betrayed you— for he 
did betray you, there is no doubt about 
it — that obtuse and obstinate general is 
not worthy to unloose the latchets of 
your shoes !” 

“You overpower me, Monsieur Ta- 
baret !” interrupted Lecoq, who was not 
yet wholly convinced that his host was 
not mocking him; “but nevertheless, 
May has disappeared; and I have lost 
my reputation, before I had begun to 
make it.” 

“Do not be in such a hurry to reject 
my compliments,” responded Father Ta- 
baret, with a horrible grimace. “I say 
that you have conducted this investiga- 
tion very well; but it could have been 
done much better, very much better. 
You have a talent for this work, that is 
evident; but you lack experience; you 
become elated by a trifling advantage, or 
you are discouraged by a mere nothing; 
you fail, and yet you persist in holding 
fast to a fixed idea, as a moth flutters 
about a candle. Then, you are young. 
But never mind that, it is a fault you will 
outgrow only too soon. And now, to 
speak frankly, I must tell you that you 
have made a great many blunders.” 

Lecoq hung his head like a schoolboy 
receiving a reprimand from his teacher. 
Was he not a scholar, and was not this 
old man his master? 

“I will now enumerate your mistakes,” 
continued Papa Tabaret, “and I will 
show you where you, on at least three 
occasions, have allowed an opportunity 
for solving this mystery to escape you.” 

“But, monsieur ” 

“Chut! chut! my boy, let me talk a 
while now. With what axiom did you 
start? With this: ‘Always distrust ap- 
pearances ; believe precisely the con- 


trary of what appears true, or even 
probable.’ ” 

“Yes, that is exactly what I said to 
myself.” 

“And it was a very wise conclusion. 
With that idea in your lantern to illu- 
mine your path, you ought to have gone 
straight to the truth. But you are young, 
as I said before ; and the very first cir- 
cumstance you find that seems at all 
probable, you forget entirely the rule 
that should govern your conduct. As 
soon as you meet a fact that seems more 
than probable, you swallow it as eagerly 
as a gudgeon swallows the bait.” 

This comparison could but pique the 
young detective. 

“I have not been, it seems to me, as 
simple as that,” he protested. 

“Bah! What did you think, then, 
when you were told that M. d’Escorval 
had broken his leg, in alighting from his 
carriage?” 

“Believe! I believed what they told 
me, because ” 

He paused, and Papa Tirauclair burst 
into a hearty fit of laughing. 

“You believed it,” he said, “because 
it was a very plausible story.” 

“What would you have believed had 
you been in my place?” 

“Exactly the opposite of what they 
told me. I might have been mistaken; 
but it would be the logical conclusion of 
the course of reasoning I adopted at 
first.” 

This conclusion was so bold that Lecoq 
was disconcerted. * 

“What!” he exclaimed; “do you sup- 
pose that M. d'Escorval’s fall is only a 
fiction? that he has not broken his leg?” 

Papa Tabaret' s face suddenly assumed 
a serious expression. 

“I do not suppose it,” he replied; “I 
am sure of it.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Lecoq's confidence in the oracle he 
was consulting was very great ; but even 
Papa Tirauclair might be mistaken, and 
what he had just said seemed to be such 
an enormity, so completely beyond the 
bounds of possibility, that the young 
man could not hide a gesture of incredu- 
lity. 

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are ready 
to affirm that M. d’Escorval is in as good 
health as Father Absinthe or myself; 
and that he has confined himself to his 
room for two months to give a semblance 
of truth to a falsehood?’’ 

“I would be willing to swear it.” 

“But what could possibly have been 
his object?” 

Tabaret lifted his hands to heaven, as 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


115 


if imploring forgiveness for the young 
man’s stupidity. 

u And it was in you — in you that I saw 
a successor, and a continuator of my 
method of induction; and now, you ask 
me such a question as that ! Reflect a 
moment. Must I give you an example to 
aid you? Very well. Suppose yourself a 
judge. A crime is committed; you are 
charged with the duty of investigating 
it, and you visit the prisoner to question 
him. Very well. This prisoner has, up 
to that time, succeeded in concealing his 
identity — this was the truth in the pres- 
ent case, was it not? Very well. What 
would you do, if, at the very first glance, 
you recognize, under the disguise of the 
prisoner, your best friend, or your bit- 
terest enemy? What would you do, I 
say?” 

“I should say to myself that a magis- 
trate who is obliged to hesitate between 
his duty and his inclinations, is placed in 
a very trying position, and I should en- 
deavor to avoid it.” 

“I understand that; but would you re- 
veal the true personality of this prisoner 
(your friend, or your enemy, as the case 
may be), if you alone knew it?” 

It was such a delicate question; the 
answer was so difficult that Lecoq was 
silent, reflecting. 

“I would reveal nothing whatever!” 
claimed Father Absinthe. “I would re- 
main absolutely neutral. I should tell 
myself that others were trying to dis- 
cover his identity ; and they might do it 
if they could — but my conscience should 
be clear.” 

It was the cry of honesty; not the 
counsel of a casuist. 

“I should also be silent,” replied Le- 
coq, at last; “and it seems to me that, in 
keeping silence, I should not fail in the 
obligation of a magistrate.” 

Papa Tabaret rubbecl his hands vigor- 
ously, as he always did when he was 
about to present some overwhelming ar- 
gument. 

“Such being the case,” said he, “do 
me the favor to tell me what pretext you 
would invent in order to withdraw from 
the case without arousing suspicion?” 

“I do not know ; I cannot say now. But 
if I were placed in such a position I 
should find some excuse— invent some- 
thing ” 

“And if you could find nothing bet- 
ter,” interrupted Tabaret, “you would 
adopt M. d’Escorval’s expedient; you 
would pretend that you had broken some 
limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow, 
it would be your arm that you would 
sacrifice. It would be less inconvenient ; 
and you would not be condemned to se- 
clusion for several months.” 

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are con- 
vinced that M. d’Escorval knows who 
May really is.” 


Father Tirauclair turned so suddenly 
in his bed that his forgotten gout drew 
from him a terrible groan. 

“Can you doubt it?” he exclaimed. 
“Can you possibly doubt it ? What proofs 
do you ask, then? What connection do 
you see between the fall of the judge and 
the prisoner’s attempt ar suicide? 

“I was not there, as you were ; I know 
the story only as you have told it to me. 
I could not see it with my own eyes ; but 
this is as I understand it — listen : 

“M. d’Escorval, his task at the Widow 
Chupin’s house completed, comes to the 
prison to examine the assassin. The two 
men recognize each other. Had they 
been alone, mutual explanations might 
have ensued, and affairs taken quite a dif- 
ferent turn. 

“But they were not alone; a third 
party was present — M. d’Escorval’s clerk. 
So they could say nothing. The judge, 
in a troubled voice, asked a few common- 
place questions; the prisoner, terribly 
agitated, replied as best he could. 

“After leaving the cell, M. d’Escorval 
said to himself : ‘No, I cannot decide in 
the case of a man whom I hate !’” 

“He was terribly perplexed. When 
you . tried to speak to him, as he was 
leaving the prison, he harshly told you 
to wait until to-morrow; and a quarter 
of an hour later he pretended to fall.” 

“Then you think that M. d’Escorval 
and this so-called May are enemies ?” in- 
quired Lecoq. 

‘ ‘Do not the facts demonstrate that be- 
yond a doubt?” asked Tabaret. “If they 
were friends, the judge might have done 
the same exactly ; but the prisoner would 
not have attempted to strangle himself.” 

“But thanks to you ; his life was saved; 
for he owes his life to you. During the 
night, confined in a straight-jacket, he 
was powerless to injure himself. Ah! 
how he -must have suffered that night ! 
What agony ! 

“So, in the morning, when he was con- 
ducted to the cabinet of the judge for 
examination, it was with a sort of frenzy 
that he dashed into the dreaded presence 
of his enemy. 

“He expected to find M. d’Escorval 
there, ready to triumph over his misfor- 
tunes ; and he intended to say : 

“ ‘Yes, it is I. There is a fatality in it. 
I have killed three men, and I am in your 
power. But, for the very reason that 
there is a mortal hatred between us, you 
owe it to yourself not to prolong my tor- 
tures ! It would be infamous cowardice 
in you to do so !’ 

“But, instead of M. d’Escorval, he sees 
M. Segmuller. Then what happens? 

“He is surprised, and his eye betrays 
the astonishment he feels when he real- 
izes the generosity of his enemy, whom 
he had believed implacable. 

“Then a smile mounts to his lips — a 


116 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


smile of hope ; for he thinks, since M. 
d’Escorval lias not betrayed his secret, 
that he may be able to preserve it, and 
that he may. perhaps, emerge from this 
shadow of shame and of crime with his 
name and his honor still untarnished.” 

And with a sudden change of tone, and 
an ironical gesture, Papa Tabaret added : 

“And that — is my explanation.” 

Old Father Absinthe had risen, frantic 
with delight. 

“ Cristi /” he exclaimed; u that is it! 
that is it !” 

Lecoq’ s approbation was none the less 
evident, because it was mute. 

He could appreciate this rapid and 
wonderful work of induction far better 
than his companion. 

For a moment or two Papa Tabaret re- 
clined upon his pillows enjoying the 
sweets of admiration, then he continued : 

‘•Do you desire further proofs, my 
boy? Recollect the perseverance M. 
d’Escorval displayed in sending M. Seg- 
muller for information. I admit that a 
man may have a passion for his profes- 
sion ; but not to such an extent as this. 
At that time you believed that his leg 
was broken. How is it that you felt no 
surprise that a judge, lying upon the 
rack, with his bones in fragments, should 
take so much interest in a miserable mur- 
derer? I have no broken bones, I have 
only the gout; but I know very well 
that when I am suffering half the world 
might be judging the other half, and the 
idea of sending Mariette for informa- 
tion would never occur to me. Ah! a 
moment’s reflection would have enabled 
you to understand the reason of his soli- 
citude, and would probably have given 
you the key to the whole mystery.” 

Lecoq, who was such a brilliant casuist 
in the Widow Chupin's hovel, who was so 
full of confidence in himself, and so 
earnest in expounding his theories to 
simple Father Absinthe — Lecoq hung his 
head abashed and did not utter a word. 

But he felt neither anger nor impa- 
tience. 

He had come to ask advice, and strange 
to say, he thought it quite right that it 
should be given him. 

He had made mistakes, and when they 
were pointed out to him, he did not be- 
come angry — another marvel! — and he 
did not try to prove that he had been 
right when he had been wrong. 

Meanwhile M. Tabaret had poured out 
a great glass of tisane , and drained it. 
He now resumed : 

“I need not remind you of the mistake 
you made in not obliging Toinon Cliupin 
to tell you all she knew about this affair 
while she was in your power. ‘A bird in 
the hand’ — you know the proverb.” 

“Be assured, Monsieur Tabaret, that 
this mistake has cost me enough to make 


me realize the danger of ever allowing 
the zeal of a well-disposed witness to 
cool.” 

“We will say no more about that, then. 
But I must tell you that three or four 
times, at least, it has been in your power 
to clear up this mystery.” 

He paused, awaiting some protestation 
from his disciple. None came. 

“If he says this,” thought the young 
detective, “it must indeed be so.” 

This discretion made a great impres- 
sion on Papa Tabaret, and increased the 
esteem he had conceived for Lecoq. 

“The first time that you were lacking 
in discretion was when you were trying 
to discover the owner of the diamond ear- 
ring found in the Poivriere.” 

“I made every effort to discover the last 
owner.” 

“You tried very hard, I do not deny 
that ; but as for making every effort — 
that is saying too much. For example, 
when you heard that the Baroness de 
Watchau was dead, and that all her 
property had been sold, what did you 
do?” 

.“You know; I went immediately to the 
person who had charge of the sale.” 

“Very well! and afterwards?” 

“I examined the catalogue; and as, 
among the jewels mentioned there, I 
could find none that answered the de- 
scription of these magnificent diamonds, 

I knew that the clue was losten.irely.” 

“There is precisely where you are mis- 
taken !” exclaimed Papa Tirauclair, exul- 
tantly. “If a jewel of such great value 
is not mentioned in the catalogue of the 
sale the Baroness de Watchau could not 
have possessed it at the time of her death. 
And if she no longer possessed it she must 
have given it away, or sold it. And to 
whom? To one of her friends, very 
probably. 

“For this reason, had I been in your 
place, I should have inquired the names 
of her intimate friends, which would 
have been a very easy task ; and then, I 
should have tried to win the favor of all 
the femmes-de-chambre of these lady 
friends. This would have been only a 
pastime for a good-looking young fellow 
like you. 

“Then,” he continued, “I would have 
shown this ear-ring to each maid in suc- 
cession until I found one who said: 
‘This diamond belongs to my mistress,’ 
or one who was seized with a nervous 
trembling.” 

“And to think that this idea did not 
once occur to me!” 

“Wait, wait. I am coming to the second 
mistake you made. What did you do 
when you obtained possession of the 
trunk which May pretended was his? 
You played directly into this cunning ad- 
versary's hand. How could you fail to 
see that this trunk was only an accessory 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


117 


to the comedy, that it could only have 
be' n deposited with Mine. Milner by the 
accomplice, and that all its contents must 
have been purchased for the occasion.” 

‘‘I knew this, of course; but even 
under these circumstances, what could I 
do?” 

“YYTiat could you do my boy? Well, 
I. am only a poor old man, but / w r ould 
have interviewed every clothier in Paris; 
and at last some one of them would 
have exclaimed : ‘Those articles ! Why, 
1 sold them to an individual like this or 
that — who purchased them for one of 
his friends whose measure he brought 
with him.’ ” 

Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his 
clenched hand violently upon the table 
by his side. 

“ Sacrebleu P 1 he exclaimed, “that 
method was infallible and as simple as 
the day. Ah! never while I live shall 
I forgive myself for my stupidity!” 

“Gently, gently!” interrupted the sick 
man; “you are going too far, my dear 
boy. Stupidity is not the proper word 
at all; you should say carelessness, 
thoughtlessness. You are young — what 
else could one expect? What is far less 
inexcusable is the manner in w T hich you 
conducted the chase, after the prisoner 
was allowed to escape.” 

“Alas!” murmured the young man, 
now completely discouraged; “did I 
blunder in that ?” • 

“Terribly, my son; and here is where 
I really blame you. YY r hat diabolical in- 
fluence induced you to follow this May, 
step by step, like a common policeman?” 

This time Lecoq wais stupefied. 

“Ought I to have allowed him to es- 
cape me ?” he inquired. 

“No; but if I had been by your side 
wlun, beneath the gallery of the Odeon, 
you so clearly divined the prisoner's in- 
tentions, I should have said to you : 
‘This fellow, friend Lecoq, wall hasten to 
the house of Mine. Milner to inform her 
of his escape. Let us run after him.’ 
And when he had left the Hotel de 
Mariembourg, I should have added : 
‘Now, let him go where he chooses; but 
attach yourself to Mine. Milner ; do not 
lose sight of her ; cling to her as closely 
as her owm shadowy for she wall conduct 
you to the accomplice— that is to say — 
to the solution of the mystery.’ ” 

“That is the truth; I see it now.” 

“But instead of that, what did you do? 
You ran to the hotel, you terrified the 
boy ! When a fisherman has hold of the 
seine, and is ready to draw in the fish, he 
does not beat the drum to frighten them 
away !” 

Papa Tabaret thus reviewed the entire 
course of instruction, remodeling it in 
accordance with his method of induc- 
tion. 

Lecoq had, at first, had a magnificent 


inspiration. In his first investigations 
he had displayed remarkable talent ; and 
yet he had not succeeded. Why ? Sim- 
ply because he had neglected the axiom 
with which he started: “Always dis- 
trust what seems probable!” 

But the young man listened with di- 
vided attention. A thousand projects 
w r ere darting through his brain. Soon 
he could restrain himself no longer. 

“You have saved me from despair, 
monsieur,” he interrupted. “I thought 
all w r as lost ; but I see that my blunders 
can be repaired What I neglected to 
do, I can do now; there is still time. 
Have I not the diamond ear-ring as well 
as divers effects of the prisoner still in 
my possession. Mine. Milner still owns 
the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I am 
going to watch it.” 

“And with w r hat object, my boy?” 

“For what object? YVhy, to find my 
prisoner, to be sure !” 

Had he been less engrossed in his 
idea. Lecoq w r ould have detected a slight 
smile in Tirauclair’s thick lips. 

“Ah, my son ! is it possible that you do 
not suspect the real name of this pretend- 
ed buffoon?” 

Lecoq trembled and turned away his 
face. He did not wish Tabaret to see 
his eyes. 

“No,” he replied, “I do not sus- 
pect ” 

“You are uttering a falsehood!” in- 
terrupted the sick man. You know as 
as well as I do, that May resides on the 
Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that 
he is know r n as M. le Due de Sairmeuse.” 

On hearing these words, Father Ab- 
sinthe laughed heartily. 

“Ah! that is a good joke!” he ex- 
claimed. “Ah, ha!” 

Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, how- 
ever. 

“YVel!, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said 
he, “this idea did occur to me; but I 
drove it away.” 

“And why, if you please?” 

“Because — because— — ” 

“Because you would not believe the 
logical sequence of your premises; but 
I am consistent, and I say : ‘It seems 
impossible that the assassin in the cabin 
of the YVidow Chupin should be the 
Duke de Sairmeuse.” Hence, the mur- 
derer in the Chupin cabin. May, the pre- 
tended buffoon, is the Duke de Sair- 
meuse !” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

How this idea had entered Papa Ta- 
baret’s head, Lecoq could not compre- 
hend. 

A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted 
through his own mind ; but it was at a 
moment when his despair at seeing his 


118 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


prisoner elude his grasp, as well as cer- 
tain words uttered by Couturier, would 
furnish an excuse for almost any sup- 
position. 

But father Tirauclair calmly — in cold 
blood, so to speak — announced as an un- 
deniable fact a suspicion which he, Lecoq, 
had not dared to entertain, even for an 
instant, in his wildest excitement. 

The sick man could not fail to notice 
the amazement of his visitor. 

“You look as if you had suddenly 
fallen from the clouds,” said he. “Do 
you suppose that I spoke at random like 
a parrot?” 

“No, certainly not, monsieur; but ” 

“Hush! You are surprised because 
you know nothing of contemporaneous 
history. If you do not wish to remain 
all your life as a common detective, like 
your friend Gevrol, you must inform 
yourself on this subject.” 

“I must confess that I do not see the 
connection.” 

M. Tabaret deigned no response. Turn- 
ing to Father Absinthe, and addressing 
him in the most affable tones, he said : 

“Do me the favor, my old friend, to 
go to my library and bring me two large 
volumes entitled : ‘General Biography of 
the Men of the Present Age.’ They are 
in the book-case on the right.” 

Father Absinthe hastened to obey ; and 
as soon as he was in possession of the 


books, M. Tabaret began turning the* 
pages with an eager hand, like a person 
seeking some word in a dictionary. 

“Esbayron,” he muttered, “Escars, 
Escayrae, Escher, Escodica — at last we 
have it — Escorval ! Listen attentively, 
my boy, and you will be enlightened.” 

This injunction was entirely unnec- 
essary. Never had the young detective’s 
faculties been more keenly on the alert. 

“It was in an emphatic voice that the 
sick man read : 

“ ‘Escorval (Louis-Guillaume, baron 
d’). — Diplomatist and politician, born in 
Montaignac, December 3rd, 1769, of an 
old family of lawyers. He was com- 
pleting his studies in Paris on the break- 
ing out of the Revolution. He embraced 
the cause with all the ardor of youth. 
But, soon disapproving the excesses com- 
mitted in the name of Liberty, he sided 
with the Reactionists, counselled, per- 
haps, by Roederer, who was one of his 
relatives. 

“ ‘Commended to the favor of the first 
consul by M. de Talleyrand, he entered 
upon his diplomatic career with a mission 
to Switzerland ; and during the existence 
of the empire he was intrusted with 
many very important negotiations. 

“ ‘Devoted body and soul to the em- 


ble charge of high treason and conspira- 
cy. He was tried by a military com- 
mission, and condemned to death. 

“ ‘The sentence was not executed, 
however. He owed his life to the noble 
devotion and heroic energy of a priest, 
one of his friends, the Abbe Midon, cure 
of the little village of Sairmeuse. 

“ ‘The Baron d’Escorval had only one 
son who entered upon the duties of mag- 
istrate at a very early age.’ ” 

Lecoq was intensely disappointed. 

“I understand,” he remarked. “It is 
the biography of the father of our judge. 
Only I do not see that it teaches us any- 
thing.” 

An ironical smile curved Father Tirau- 
clair’s lips. 

“It teaches us that M. d’Escorval's 
father was condemned to death,” he re- 
plied. “That is something, I assure you. 
A little patience, you will soon know 
all.” 

He had found a new leaf, and he con- 
tinued his reading : 

“ ‘Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Victor de 
Tingry, Due de). — A French general and 
politician, born at the chateau de Sair- 
meuse, near Montaignac, January 17, 
1758. The Sairmeuse family is one of 
the oldest and most illustrious in France. 
It must not he confounded with the ducal 
family De Sermeuse, whose name is writ- 
ten with an e. 

“ ‘Leaving France at the beginning of 
the Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse dis- 
tinguished himself by his brilliant ex- 
ploits in the army of Conde. Some years 
later he offered his sword to Russia ; and 
it is asserted by some of his biographers 
that he was fighting in the Russian ranks 


peror, he found himself gravely com- 
promised by the Second Restoration. 

“At the time of the disturbances in 
Montaignac. he was arrested on the dou- 


at the time of the disastrous retreat from 
Moscow. 

“ ‘Returning to France with the Bour- 
bons, he became quite famous by reason 
of the intensity of his ultra-royalist 
opinions. It is certain that he had the 
good fortune to regain the possession of 
his immense family estates ; and the rank 
and dignities which he had gained in 
foreign lands were confirmed. 

“ ‘Appointed by the king to serve upon 
the military commission charged with 
bringing to justice and trying the con- 
spirators of Montaignac, he displayed a 
severity and a zeal that resulted in the 
capture and conviction of all the parties 
implicated.’ ” 

Lecoq sprang up with sparkling eyes. 

“I see it clearly now,” he exclaimed. 
“The father of the present duke de Sair- 
meuse tried to have the father of the 
present M. d'Escorval beheaded.” 

M. Tabaret was the picture of com- 
placency. 

“You see the assistance history gives,” 
said he. “But I have not finished, 
my boy ; the present Duke de Sairmeuse 


MONSIEUR LECOQ.' 


119 


also has his article, that will be of inter- 
est to us. So listen : 

“‘Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Martial).— 
Son of the preceding, was born in London 
in 1791, received his early education in 
England, and completed it at the Court 
of Austria, which he has since visited on 
several confidential missions.. 

u ‘Heir of the opinions, the prejudices, 
and the animosities, of his father, he 
placed at the service of his party a highly 
cultivated intellect, unusual penetration, 
and extraordinary abilities. A leader at 
the time when political passion w r as rag- 
ing highest, he had the courage to as- 
sume the sole responsibility of the most ex- 
treme measures. Obliged to retii 

office on account of # general animadver- 
sion, he left behind him ill-will and 
hatred, which will be extinguished only 
with his life.’ ” 

The sick man closed the book, and with 
assumed modes y, he asked : 

“Ah, w r ell ! What do you think of my 
little method of induction ?” 

But Lecoq w T as too much engrossed 
with his own thoughts to respond. 

“I think,” he remarked, “if the Duke 
de Sairmeuse had disappeared for two 
months, the period of May’s imprison- 
ment, all Paris w r ould have known it, 
and so ” 

“You are dreaming!” interrupted 
Father Tabaret. “With his wife and his 
valet de chambre for accomplices, the duke 
could absent himself for a year if 
he wished, and all his servants would be- 
lieve him in the hotel.” 

“I admit that,” said Lecoq, at last; 
“but unfortunately, there is one circum- 
stance which overturns this theory we 
have built up so laboriously.” 

“And what is that, if you please?” 

“If the man w ho took part in the broil 
at the Poivriere had been the Duke de 
Sairmeuse, he w T ould have disclosed his 
name— he w ould have declared that, hav- 
ing been attacked, he had only defended 
himself — and his name alone w ould have 
opened the prison-doors for him. Instead 
of that, what did the prisoner do ? He at- 
tempted to kill himself. Would a grand 
seigneur, like the Duke de Sairmeuse, to 
whom life must be a perpetual enchant- 
ment, have thought of committing 
suicide?” 

A mocking whistle from Father Taba- 
ret interrupted the speaker. 

“You seem to have forgotten the last 
sentence in the paragraph: ‘M. Sair- 
meuse leaves behind him ill-will and ha- 
tred.’ Do you know the price he might 
have been compelled to pay for his lib- 
erty? No — no more do I. To explain 
his presence at the Poivriere, and 
presence of a woman, who was, perhaps 
his wfife, who knows what disgraceful 
secrets he w r ould be obliged to betray ? 
Between shame and suicide, he chose 


suicide. He wished to save his name 
and his honor intact.” 

Father Tirauclair spoke with such vehe- 
mence that even old Father Absinthe 
was deeply impressed, although, to tell 
the truth, he had understood but little of 
the conversation. 

He w as now delighted and confident. 

As for Lecoq, he rose, very pale, his 
lips trembling a little — like a mm who 
had just taken an invincible determina- 
tion. 

“You will excuse my hypocrisy, Father 
Tabaret,” he said, in an agitated voice, 
thought of all this — but I dis- 
myself. I wished to hear you 


with an imperious gesture, he 


I had 
trusted 
say it.” 

Then 
added : 

“Now, I know what I have to do.” 

Father Tabaret lifted his hands toward 
heaven with every sign of intense dis- 
may. 

“Unhappy man!” he exclaimed; “do 
you think of going to arrest the Duke de 
Sairmeuse? Poor Lecoq ! Free, this man 
is almost omnipotent, and you, an in- 
finitesimal agent of police, will be broken 
like glass. Take care, my boy, do not 
attack the duke. I w r ould not be respon- 
sible, even for your life.” 

The young detective shook his head. 

“Oh! I do not deceive myself,” said 
he. “I know that the duke is far be- 
yond my reach. But he will be in my 
power again on the day I learn his secret. 
I do not fear danger ; but I know, if I 
would succeed, I must conceal myself — I 
will conceal myself then. Yes, I will 
remain in shadow until the day when I 
can remove the veil from this mystery — 
then, I will appear in my true character. 
And if May is really the Duke de Sair- 
meuse — I shall hav.e my revenge.” 


THE HONOR OF THE NAME. 
CHAPTER XLIY. 


On the first Sunday in the month of 
August, 1815, at ten o’clock precisely — 
as on every Sunday morning — the sacris- 
tan of the parish church at Sairmeuse 
sounded the three strokes of the bell 
which warn the faithful that the priest 
is ascending the steps of the altar to cel- 
ebrate high mass. 

The church was already more than 
half full, and from every side little 
groups of peasants w r ere hurrying into 
the church-yard. The women were all in 
tfieir bravest attire, with cunning little 
the (/zc/ms crossed upon their breasts, broad- 
striped, brightly-colored skirts, and large 
white coifs. 

Being as economical as they were co- 
quettish, they came barefooted, bringing 


/ 


120 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


their shoes in their hands, but put them} Above all, it s.gnified ruin for there 

on reverentially before entering the house was scarcely one among them who had 


of God. 

But few of the men entered the church. 

They remained outside to talk, seating all estates were to be 
themselves in the porch, or standing former proprietors 


not purchased some morsel of government 
land; and they were assured now that 

returned to the 
who had 


emigrated 


about the yard, in the shade of the cen- 
tury-old elms. 

For such was the custom in the ham- 
let of Sairmeuse. 

The two hours which the women con- 
secrated to prayer the men employed in 
discussing the news, the success or the 
failure of the crops ; and, before the ser- 
vice ended, they could generally be 
found, glass in hand, in the bar-room of 
the village inn. 

For the farmers for a league around, 
the Sunday mass was only an excuse for 
a reunion, a sort of weekly bourse. 

All the cures who had been successive- 
ly stationed at Sairmeuse, had endeav- 
ored to put an end to this scandalous 
habit, as they termed it; but all their 
efforts had made no impression upon 
country obstinacy. 

They had succeeded in gaining only 
one concession. At the moment of the 
elevation of the Host, voices were 
hushed, heads uncovered, and a few even 
bowed the knee, and made the sign of 
the cross. 

But this was the affair of an instant 
only, and conversation was immediately 
resumed with increased vivacity. 

But to-day the usual animation was 
wanting. 

No sounds came from the little knots 
of men gathered here and there, not an 
oath, not a laugh. Between buyers and 
sellers, one did not overhear a single one 
of those interminable discussions, punct 
uated with the popular oaths, such as 
“By my faith in God!” or, “May the 
devil burn me !” 

They were not talking, they were 
whispering together. A gloomy sadness 
was visible upon each face; lips were 
placed cautiously at the listener’s ear; 
anxiety could be read in every eye. 

One scented misfortune in the very air. 

Only a month had elapsed since Louis 
XVIll. had been, for the second time, in- 
stalled in the Tuileries by a triumphant 
coalition. 

The earth had not yet had time to 
sw r allow the sea of blood that £low r ed at 
Waterloo; twelve hundred thousand for- 
eign soldiers desecrated the soil of 
France; the Prussian General Muffling 
was Governor of Paris. 

And the peasantry of Sairmeuse trem- 
bled with indignation and fear. 

This king, brought back by the allies, 
was no less to be dreaded than the allies 
themselves. 

To them this great name of Bourbon 
signified only a terrible burden of taxa- 
tion and oppression. 


after the overthrow of the Bourbons. 

Hence it was with a feverish curiosity 
that most of them clustered around a 
young man who, only two days before, 
had returned from the army. 

With tears of rage in his eyes, he was 
recounting the shame and the misery of 
the invasion. 

He told of the pillage at Versailles, the 
exactions at Orleans, and the pitiless re- 
quisitions that had stripped the people of 
everything. • 

“And these accursed foreigners to 
whom the traitors have delivered us, will 
not go so long as a shilling or a bottle of 
wine is left in France!” he exclaimed. 

As he said this he shook his clenched 
fist menacingly at a white flag that floated 
from the tOAver. 

His generous anger won the close at- 
tention of his auditors, and they Avere 
still listening to him with undiminished 
interest, when the sound of a horse’s 
hoofs resounded upon the stones of the 
only street in Sairmeuse. 

A shudder traversed the crowd. The 
same fear stopped the beating of every 
heart. 

Who could say that this rider was not 
some English or Prussian officer? He 
had come, perhaps, to announce the arri- 
val of his regiment, and imperiously 
demand money, clothing, and food for his 
soldiers. 

But the suspense was not of long dura- 
tion. 

The rider proved to be a fellow-coun- 
tryman, clad in a torn and dirty blue 
linen blouse. He was urging forward, 
with repeated blows, a little, bony, nerv- 
ous mare, covered with foam. 

“Ah lit is Father Cliupin,” murmured 
one of the peasants with a sigh of relief. 

“The same,” observed another. “He 
seems to be in a terrible hurry.” 

“The old rascal has probably stolen the 
horse he is riding.” 

This last remark disclosed the reputa- 
tion Father Ghupin enjoyed among his 
neighbors. 

He was, indeed, one of those thieves 
Avho are the scourge and the terror of 
the rural districts. He pretended to be a 
day-laborer, but the truth was that he held 
all work in holy horror, and spent all his 
time in sleeping and idling about his 
hovel. Hence stealing was the only 
means of support for himself, his wife, 
and two sons — terrible youths, who, 
somehow, had escaped the conscription. 

They consumed nothing that was not 
stolen. Wheat, wine, fuel, fruits — all 
were the rightful property of others. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


121 


Hunting and Ashing at all seasons, and 
with forbidden appliances, furnished 
them with ready money. 

Every one in the neighborhood knew 
this ; and yet when Father Chupin was 
pursued and captured, as he was occa- 
sionally, no witness could be found to 
testify against him. 

“He is a hard case,” men said, “and if 
he had a grudge against any one, he 
would be quite capable of lying in am- 
bush and shooting him as he would a 
squirrel.” 

Meanwhile the rider had drawn rein at 
the inn of the Boeuf Couronne. 

He alighted from his horse, and 
crossing the square, approached the 
church. 

He was a large man, about fifty years 
of age, as gnarled and sinewy as the 
stem of an old grape-vine. At the first 
glance one would not have taken him for 
a scoundrel. His manner was humble 
and even gentle ; but the restlessness of 
his eye and the expression of his thin 
lips betrayed diabolical cunning and the 
coolest calculation. 

At any other time this despised and 
dreaded individual would have been 
avoided ; but curiosity and anxiety led the 
crowd toward him. 

“Ah, well, Father Chupin!” they cried 
as soon as he was within the sound of 
their voices, “whence do you come in 
such haste?” 

“From the city.” 

To the inhabitants of Sairmeuse and 
its environs, “the city” meant the coun- 
try town of the arrondissement, Montaig- 
nac, a charming sub-prefecture of eight 
thousand souls, about four leagues dis- 
tant. 

“And was it at Montaignac that you 
bought the horse you were riding just 
now?” 

“I did not buy it; it was loaned to 
me.” 

This was such a strange assertion that 
his listeners could not repress a smile. 
He did not seem to notice it however. 

“It was loaned me,” he continued, “in 
order that I might bring some great news 
here the quicker.” 

Fear resumed possession of the peas- 
antry. 

“Is the enemy in the city?” anxiously 
inquired some of the more timid. 

“Yes, but not the enemy you refer to. 
This is the former lord of the manor, the 
Duke de Sairmeuse.” 

“Ah! they said he was dead.” 

“They were mistaken.” 

“Have you seen him?” 

“No, I have not seen him, but some 
one else has seen him for me, and has 
spoken to him. And this some one is M. 
Laugeron, the proprietor of the Hotel de 
France at Montaignac. I was passing 
the house this morning, when he called 


me. ‘Here, old man,’ he said, ‘do you 
wish to do me a favor?’ Naturally I re- 
plied : ‘Yes.’ Whereupon he placed a 
coin in my hand and said : ‘Well ! go and 
tell them to saddle a horse for you, then 
gallop to Sairmeuse, and tell my friend 
Lacheneur that the Duke de Sairmeuse 
arrived here last night in a post-chaise, 
with his son M. Martial, and two ser- 
vants.’ ” 

Here, in the midst of these peasants, 
who were listening to him with pale 
cheeks and set teeth, Father Chupin pre- 
served the subdued mien appropriate to 
a messenger of misfortune. 

But if one had observed him carefully, 
one would have detected an ironical 
smile upon his lips, and a gleam of mali- 
cious joy in his eyes. 

He was, in fact, inwardly jubilant. At 
that moment he had his revenge for all 
the slights and all the scorn he had been 
forced to endure. And what a revenge ! 

And if his words seemed to fall slowly 
and reluctantly from his lips, it was only 
because he was trying to prolong the 
sufferings of his auditors as much as pos- 
sible. 

But a robust young fellow, with an in- 
telligent face, who, perhaps, read Father 
Chupin’s secret heart, brusquely inter- 
rupted him. 

“What does the presence of the Duke 
de Sairmeuse at Montaignac matter to 
us?” he exclaimed. “Let him remain at 
the Hotel de France as long as he chooses ; 
we shall not go in search of him.” 

“No! we shall not go in search of 
him,” echoed the other peasants, approv- 
ingly. 

The old rogue shook his head with 
affected commiseration. 

“Monsieur le Due will not put you to 
that trouble,” he replied; “he will be 
here in less than two hours.” 

“How do you know?” 

‘*1 know it through M. Laugeron, who, 
when I mounted his horse, said to me : 
‘Above all, old man, explain to my 
friend Lacheneur that the duke has or- 
dered horses to be in readiness to convey 
him to Sairmeuse at eleven o’clock.’ ” 

“With a common movement, all the 
peasants who had watches consulted 
them.” 

“And what does he want here?” de- 
manded the same young farmer. 

“Pardon ! — he did not tell me,” replied 
Father Chupin, “but one need not be 
very cunning to guess. He comes to re- 
visit his former estates, and to take them 
from those who have purchased them, if 
possible. From you, Rou,sselet, he will 
claim the meadows upon the Oiseile, 
which al »vays yield two crops ; from you, 
Father Gauchais, the ground upon which 
the Croix-Brulee stands; from you, 
Chanlouineau, the vineyards on the 
Borderie ” 


122 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Chanlouineau was the impetuous young 
man who had interrupted Father Chu- 
pin twice already. 

“Claim the Borderie!” he exclaimed, 
with even greater violence; “let him try 
— and we will see. It was waste land 
when my father bought it — covered with 
briers ; even a goat could not have found 
pasture there. We have cleared it of 
stones, we have scratched up the soil 
with our very nails, we have watered it 
with our sweat, and now they would try 
to take it from us ! Ah ! they shall 
have my last drop of blood first.” 

“I do not say but ” 

“But what? Is it any fault of ours 
that the nobles fled to foreign lands? We 
have not stolen their lands, have we? 
The government offered them for sale; 
we bought them, and paid for them; 
they are lawfully ours.” 

“That is true; but M. de Sairmeuse is 
the great friend of the king.” 

The young soldier, whose voice had 
aroused the most noble sentiments only a 
moment before, was forgotten. 

Invaded France, the threatening ene- 
my, were alike forgotten. The all-pow- 
erful instinct of avarice was suddenly 
aroused. 

“In my opinion,” resumed Chanloui- 
neau, “we should do well to consult the 
Baron d’Escorval.” 

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the peasants; 
“let us go at once !” , 

They were starting, when a villager 
who sometimes read the papers, checked 
them by saying : 

“Take care what you do. Do you not 
know that since the return of the Bour- 
bons M. d’Escorval is of no account 
whatever? Fouche has him upon the 
proscription list, and he is under the sur- 
veillance of the police.” 

This objection dampened the enthusi- 
asm. 

“That is true,” murmured some of 
the older men, “a visit to M. d’Escorval 
would, perhaps, do us more harm than 
good. And, besides, what advice could 
he give us ?” 

Chanlouineau had forgotten all pru- 
dence. 

“What of that !” he exclaimed. “If 
M. d’ Escorval has no counsel to give us 
about this matter, he can, perhaps, teach 
us how to resist and to defend our- 
selves.” 

For some moments Father Chupin had 
been studying, with an impassive coun- 
tenance, the storm of anger he had 
aroused. In his secret heart he ex- 
perienced the satisfaction of the incendi- 
ary at the sight of the flames he has 
kindled. 

Perhaps he already had a presentiment 
of the infamous part he would play a 
few months later. 

Satisfied with his experiment, he as- 


sumed, for the time, the role of modera- 
tor. 

“Wait a little. Do not cry before you 
are hurt,” he exclaimed in an ironical 
tone. Who told you that the Duke de 
Sairmeuse would trouble you? How 
much of his former domain do you all 
own between you? Almost nothing. A 
few fields and meadows, and a hill on 
the Borderie. All these together did not 
in former times yield him an income of 
five thousand francs a year.” 

“Yes, that is true,” replied Chanloui- 
neau; “and if the revenue you mention 
is quadrupled, it is only because the land 
is now in the hands of forty proprietors 
who cultivate it themselves.” 

“Another reason why the duke will 
not say a word ; he will not wish to set 
the whole district in commotion. In my 
opinion he will dispossess only one of the 
owners of his former estates, and that is 
our worthy ex-mayor — M. Lacheneur, in 
short.” 

Ah ! he knew only too well the ego- 
tism of his compatriots. He knew with 
what complacency and eagerness they 
would accept an expiatory victim whose 
sacrifice should be their salvation. 

“That is a fact,” remarked an old 
man; “M. Lacheneur owns nearly all the 
Sairmeuse property.” 

“Say all, while you are about it,” re- 
joined Father Chupin. “Where does M. 
Lacheneur live ? In that beautiful Chateau 
de Sairmeuse whose gable we can see 
there through the trees. He hunts in the 
forests which once belonged to the 
Duke de Sairmeuse; he fishes in their 
lakes ; he drives the horses which once 
belonged to them, in the carriages upon 
which one could now see their coat of 
arms, if it had not been painted out. 

“Twenty years ago, Lacheneur was a 
poor devil like myself; now, he is a 
grand gentleman with fifty thousand 
livres a year. He wears the finest broad- 
cloth, and top-boots like the Baron 
d’Escorval. He no longer works ^ he 
makes others work ; and when he passes 
every one must bow to the earth. If you 
kill so much as a sparrow upon his lands, 
as he says, he will cast you into prison. 
Ah, he has been fortunate. The emperor 
made him mayor. The Bourbons de- 
prived him of his office ; but what does 
that matter to him ? He is still the real 
master here, as the Sairmeuse were in 
other days. His son is pursuing his 
studies in Paris, intending to become a 
notary. As for his daughter, Mile. 
Marie-Anne ’ ’ 

“Not a word against her!” exclaimed 
Chanlouineau; “if she were mistress, 
there would not be a poor man in the 
country ; and yet how some of her pen- 
sioners abuse her bounty. Ask your 
wife if this is not so, Father Chupin.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


123 


Undoubtedly the impetuous young 
man spoke at the peril of his life. 

But the wicked old Chupin swallowed 
this affront which he would never forget, 
and humbly continued : 

“I do not say that Mile. Marie-Anne is 
not generous ; but after all her charita- 
ble work she has plenty of money left 
for her tine dresses and her fal-lals. 
I think that M. Lacheneur ought to 
be very well content, even after he has 
restored to its former owner one-half or 
even three-quarters of the property he 
has acquired, no one can tell how. He 
would have enough left then to grind 
the poor under foot,” 

After his appeal to selfishness, Father 
Chupin appealed to envy. There could 
be no doubt of his success. 

But he had not time to pursue his ad- 
vantage. The services were over, and 
the worshipers were leaving the church. 

Soon there appeared upon the porch 
the man in question, with a young girl 
of dazzling beauty leaning upon his arm. 

Father Chupin walked straight towards 
him, and brusquely delivered his mes- 
sage. 

M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the 
blow. He turned first so red, then so 
frightfully pale, that those around him 
thought he was about to fall. 

But he quickly recovered his self-pos- 
session, and without a word to the mes- 
senger, he walked rapidly away leading 
his daughter. 

Some minutes later an old post-chaise, 
drawn by four horses, dashed through 
the village at a gallop, and paused before 
the house of the viliage cure. 

Then one might have witnessed a sin- 
gular spectacle. , 

Father Chupin had gathered his wife 
and his children together, and the four 
surrounded the carriage, shouting with 
all the power of their lungs : 

“Long live the Duke de Sairmeuse!” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A gently ascending road, more than 
two miles in length, shaded by a quadru- 
ple row of venerable elms, led from the 
village to the Chateau de Sairmeuse. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than 
this avenue, a fit approach to a palace ; 
and the stranger who beheld it, could un- 
derstand the naively vain proverb of the 
country: “He does not know the real 
beauty of France, who has never seen 
Sairmeuse nor the Oiselle.” 

The Oiselle is the little river which one 
crosses by means of a wooden bridge on 
leaving the village, and whose clear and 
rapid waters give a delicious freshness to 
the valley. 

At every step, as one ascends, the view 


changes. It is as if an enchanting pan- 
orama were being slowly unrolled before 
one. 

On the right you can see the saw-mills 
of Fereol. On the left, like an ocean of 
verdure, the forest of Dolomien trembles 
in the breeze. Those imposing ruins on 
the other side of the river are all that 
remain of the feudal manor of the house 
of Breulh. That red brick mansion, with 
granite trimmings, half concealed by a 
bend in the river, belongs to the Baron 
d’Escorval. 

And if the day is clear, one can easily 
distinguish the spires of Montaignac in 
the distance. 

This was the path traversed by M. La- 
cheneur after Chupin had delivered his 
message. 

But what did he care for the beauties 
of the landscape ! 

Upon the church porch he had received 
his death wound ; and now, with a tot- 
tering and dragging step, he dragged 
himself along like one of those poor 
soldiers, mortally wounded upon the field 
of battle, who go back, seeking a ditch 
or quiet spot where they can lie down 
and die. 

He seemed To have lost all thought of 
his surroundings — all consciousness of 
previous events. He pursued his way, 
lost in his reflections, guided only by 
force of habit. 

Two or three times his daughter, Marie 
Anne, who was walking by his side, ad- 
dressed him ; but an “Ah ! let me alone !” 
uttered in a harsh tone, was the only re- 
sponse she could draw from him. 

Evidently he had received a terrible 
blow; and undoubtedly, as often hap- 
pens under such circumstances, the un- 
fortunate man was reviewing all the dif- 
ferent phases of his life. 

At twenty Lacheneur was only a poor 
ploughboy in the service of the Sairmeuse 
family. 

His ambition was modest then. When 
stretched beneath a tree at the hour of 
noonday rest, his dreams were as simple 
as those of an infant. 

“If I could but amass a hundred pis- 
toles,” he thought, “I would ask Father 
Barrois for the hand of his daughter 
Martha; and he would not refuse me.” 

A hundred pistoles ! A thousand 
francs ! — an enormous sum for him who, 
in two years of toil and privation had 
only laid by eleven louis, which he had 
placed carefully in a tiny box and hidden 
in the depths of his straw mattress. 

Still, he did not despair. He had read 
in Martha’s eyes that she would wait. 

And Mile. Armande de Sairmeuse, a 
rich old maid, was his god-mother; and 
he thought, if he attacked her adroitly, 
that he might, perhaps, interest her in 
his love affair. 


124 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Then the terrible storm of the revolu- 
tion burst over France. 

With the fall of the first thunderbolts, 
the Duke of Sairmeuse left France with 
the Count d’ Artois. They took refuge in 
foreign lands as a passer-by seeks shelter 
in a door-way from a summer shower, 
saying to himself: “This will not last 
long.” 

The storm did last, however ; and the 
following year Mile. Armande, who had 
remained at Sairmeuse, died. 

The chateau was then closed, the presi- 
dent of the district took possession of 
the keys in the name of the government, 
and the servants were scattered. 

Laclieneur took up his residence in 
Montaignac. 

Young, daring, and personally attrac- 
tive, blessed with an energetic face, and 
an intelligence far above his station, it 
was not long before he became well 
known in the political clubs. 

For three months Laclieneur was the 
tyrant of Montaignac. 

But this metier of public speaker is 
by no means lucrative, so the surprise 
throughout the district was immense, 
when it was ascertained that the former 
ploughboy had purchased the chateau, 
and almost all the land belonging to his 
old master. 

It is true that the nation had sold this 
princely domain for scarcely a twentieth 
part of its real value. The appraisement 
was sixty-nine thousand francs. It was 
giving the property away. 

And yet, it was necessary to have this 
amount, and Lacheneur possessed it, 
since he had poured it in a flood of beau- 
tiful louis d’or, into the hands of the re- 
ceiver of the district. 

From that moment his popularity 
waned. The patriots who had applauded 
the ploughboy, cursed the capitalist. He 
discreetly left them to recover from their 
rage as best they could, and returned to 
Sairmeuse. There every one bowed low 
before Citoyen Lacheneur. 

Unlike most people, he did not forget 
his past hopes at the moment when they 
might be realized. 

lie married Martha Barrois, and leav- 
ing the country to work out its own sal- 
vation without his assistance, he gave his 
time and attention to agriculture. 

Any close observer, in those days, 
would have felt certain that the man 
was bewildered by the sudden change 
in his situation. 

His manner was so troubled and anx- 
ious that one, to see him, would have sup- 
posed him a servant in constant fear of 
being detected in some indiscretion. 

He did not open the chateau, but in- 
stalled himself and his young wife in the 
cottage formerly occupied by the head 
game-keeper, near the entrance of the 
park. 


But, little by little, with the habit of 
possession, came assurance. 

The Consulate had succeeded the Direc- 
tory, the Empire succeeded the Consulate, 
Citoyen Lacheneur became M. Lacheneur. 

Appointed mayor two years later, he 
left the cottage and took possession of 
the chateau. 

The former ploughboy slumbered in the 
bed of the Dukes de Sairmeuse ; he ate 
from the massive plate, graven with their 
coat of arms ; he received his visitors in 
the magnificent salon in which the Dukes 
de Sairmeuse had received their friends 
in years gone by. 

To those who had known him in 
former days, M. Lacheneur had become 
unrecognizable. He had adapted him- 
self to his lofty station. Blushing at his 
own ignorance, he had found the courage 
— wonderful in one of his age — to ac- 
quire the education which he lacked. 

Then, ail his undertakings were suc- 
cessful to such a degree that his good 
fortune had become proverbial. That he 
took any part in an enterprise, sufficed to 
make it turn out well. 

His wife had given him two lovely 
children, a son and a daughter. 

His property, managed with a shrewd- 
ness and sagacity which the former 
owners had not possessed, yielded him an 
income of at least sixty thousand francs. 

How many under similar circumstances, 
would have lost their heads ! But he, M. 
Lacheneur, had been wise enough to re- 
tain his sang-froid . 

In spite of the princely luxury that 
surrounded him, his own habits were 
simple and frugal. He had never had an 
attendant for his own person. His large 
inqome he consecrated almost entirely to 
the improvement of his estate or to the 
purchase of more land. And yet, he was 
not avaricious. In all that concerned his 
wife or children, he did not count the 
cost. His son, Jean, had been educated 
in Paris ; he wished him to be fitted for 
any position. Unwilling to consent to a 
separation from his daughter, lie had 
procured a governess to take charge of 
her education. 

Sometimes his friends accused him of 
an inordinate ambition for his children; 
but he always shook his head sadly, as 
he replied : 

“If I can only ensure them a modest 
and comfortable future ! But what folly 
it is to count upon the future. Thirty 
years ago, who could have foreseen that 
the Sairmuese family would be deprived 
of their estates?” 

With such opinions he should have 
been a good master ; he was, but no one 
thought the better of him on that ac- 
count. His former comrades could not 
forgive him for his sudden elevation. 

They seldom spoke of him without 
wishing his ruin in ambiguous words. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


125 


Alas ! the evil days came. Towards the 
close of the year 1812, he lost his wife; 
the disasters of the year 1813 swept away 
a large portion of his personal fortune, 
which had been invested in a manufac- 
turing enterprise. Compromised by the 
first Restoration, he was obliged to con- 
ceal himself for a time ; and to cap the 
climax the conduct of his son, who was 
still in Paris, caused him serious dis- 
quietude. 

Only the evening before, he had 
thought himself the most unfortunate of 
men. 

But here was another misfortune men- 
acing him ; a misfortune so terrible that 
all the others were forgotten. 

From the day on which he had pur- 
chased Sairmeuse, to this fatal Sunday in 
August, 1815, was an interval of twenty 
years. 

Twenty years ! And it seemed to him 
only yesterday that, blushing and 
trembling, he had laid those piles of louis 
d'or upon the desk of the receiver of the 
district. 

Had he dreamed it? 

He had not dreamed it. His entire life, 
with its struggles and its miseries, its 
hopes and its fears, its unexpected joys 
and its blighted hopes, all passed before 
him. 

Lost in these memories, he had quite 
forgotten the present situation, when a 
commonplace incident, more powerful 
than the voice of his daughter, brought 
him back to the terrible reality. 

The gate leading to the Chateau de 
Sairmeuse, to his chateau, was found to 
be locked. 

He shook it with a sort of rage ; and 
being unable to break the fastening, he 
found some relief in breaking the bell. 

On hearing the noise, the gardener 
came running to the scene of action. 

“Why is this gate closed ?” demanded 
M. Lacheneur, with unwonted vio- 
lence of manner. “By what right do 
you barricade my house when I, the mas- 
ter, am without?” 

The gardener tried to make some ex- 
cuse. 

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted M. 
Lacheneur. “I dismiss you; you are no 
longer in my service.” 

He passed on, leaving the gardener 
petrified with astonishment, crossed the 
court-yard— a court-yard worthy of the 
mansion, bordered w T ith velvet turf, with 
flowers, and with dense shrubbery. 

In the vestibule, inlaid with marble, 
three of his tenants sat awaiting him, for 
it was on Sunday that he always received 
the workmen who desired to confer with 
him. 

They rose at his approach, and removed 
their hats deferentially. But he did not 
give them time to utter a word. 


“"Who permitted you to enter here?” 
he said, savagely, “and what do you de- 
sire? They sent you to play the spy on 
me. did they? Leave, I tell you!” 

The three farmers were even more be- 
wildered and dismayed than the gardener 
had been, and their remarks must have 
been interesting. 

But M. Lacheneur could not hear them. 
He had opened the door of the grand 
salon , and dashed in, followed by his 
frightened daughter. 

Never had Marie- Anne seen her father 
in such a mood ; and she trembled, her 
heart torn by the most frightful presen- 
timents. 

She had heard it said that oftentimes, 
under the influence of some dire calami- 
ty, unfortunate men have suddenly lost 
their reason entirely, and she was won- 
dering if her father had become insane. 

It would seem, indeed, that such was 
the case. His eyes flashed, convulsive 
shudders shook his whole body, a white 
foam gathered on his lips. 

He made the circuit of the room as a 
wild beast makes the circuit of his cage, 
uttering harsh imprecations and making 
frenzied gestures. 

His actions were strange, incompre- 
hensible. Sometimes he seemed to be 
trying the thickness of the carpet with 
the toe of his boot; sometimes he threw 
himself upon a sofa or a chair, as if to 
test its softness. 

Occasionally, he paused abruptly be- 
fore some one of the valuable pictures 
that covered the walls, or before a bronze. 
One might have supposed that he was 
taking an inventory, and appraising all 
the magnificent and costly articles which 
decorated this apartment, the most sump- 
tuous in the chateau. 

“And I must renounce all this !” he ex- 
claimed, at last. 

These words explained everything. 

“No, never!” he resumed, in a trans- 
port of rage — “never! never! I cannot! 
I will not !” 

Now Marie- Anne understood it all. 
But what was passing in her father’s 
mind? She wished to know ; and leaving 
the low chair in which she had been 
seated, she went to her father's side. 

“Are you ill, father?” she asked, in her 
sweet voice; “what is the matter? What 
do you fear? Why do you not confide in 
me — ami not your daughter? Do you 
no longer love me?” 

At the sound of this dear voice, M. 
Lacheneur trembled like a sleeper sud- 
denly aroused from the terrors of a night- 
mare, and he cast an indescribable glance 
upon his daughter. 

“Did you not hear what Chupin said to 
me?” he replied, slowly. “The Duke de 
Sairmeuse is at Montaignac — he will soon 
be here ; and we are dwelling in the chat- 


126 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


eau of his fathers, and his domain has 
become ours !” 

The vexed question regarding the na- 
tional lands, which agitated France for 
thirty years, Marie understood, for she 
had heard it discussed a thousand times. 

“Ah, well! dear father,” said she, 
what does that matter, even if we do hole 
the property? You have bought it and 
paid for it, have jmu not? So it is right- 
fully and lawfully ours.” 

M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment be- 
fore replying. 

But his secret suffocated him. He was 
in one of those crises in which a man, 
however strong he may be, totters and 
seeks some support, however fragile. 

“You would be right, my daughter,” 
he murmured, with drooping head, “if 
the money that I gave in exchange for 
Sairmeuse had really belonged to me.” 

At this strange avowal the young girl 
turned pale and recoiled a step. 

“What?” she faltered; “this gold was 
not yours, my father? To whom did it 
belong? From whence did it come?” 

The unhappy man had gone too far to 
retract. 

“I will tell you all, my daughter,” he 
replied, “and you shall judge. You shall 
decide. When the Sairmeuse family fled 
from France, I had only my hands to de- 
pend upon, and as it was almost impossi- 
ble to obtain work, I wondered if starva- 
tion were not near at hand. 

“Such was my condition when some 
one came after me one evening to tell me 
that Mile. Armande de Sairmeuse, my 
godmother, was dying, and wished to 
speak with me. I ran to the chateau. 

“The messenger had told the truth. 
Mile. Armande was sick unto death. I 
felt this on seeing her upon her bed, 
whiter than wax. 

“Ah ! if I w ere to live a hundred years, 
never should I forget her face as it looked 
at that moment. It was expressive of a 
strength of will and an energy that 
would hold death at bay until the task 
upon which she had determined w r as per- 
formed. 

“When I entered the room I saw a look 
of relief appear upon her countenance. 

“ ‘How long you were in coming 1” she 
murmured faintly. 

“I was about to make some excuse, 
when she motioned me to pause, and or- 
dered the women who surrounded her to 
leave the room. 

“As soon as we were alone : 

“ ‘You are an honest boy,’ said she, 
‘and I am about to give you a proof of 
my confidence. People believe me to be 
poor, but they are mistaken. While my 
relatives were gayly ruining themselves, 

I was saving the five hundred louis which 
the duke, my brother, gave me each 
year.’ 


“She motioned me to come nearer, and 
to kneel beside her bed. 

“I obeyed, and Mile. Armande leaned 
towards me, almost glued her lips to my 
ear, and added : 

“ ‘I possess eighty thousand francs.’ 

“I felt a sudden giddiness, but my god- 
mother did not notice it. 

“ ‘This amount,’ she continued, ‘is not 
a quarter part of the former income from 
our family estates. But now, who know T s 
but it will, one day, be the only resource 
of the Sairmeuse ? I am going to place 
it in your charge, Lacheneur. I confide 
it to your honor and to your devotion. 
The estates belonging to the emigrants 
are to be sold, I hear. If such an act of 
injustice is committed, you will probably 
be able to purchase our property for sev- 
enty thousand francs. If the property is 
sold by the government, purchase it ; if 
the lands belonging to the emigrants are 
not sold, take that amount to the duke, 
my brother, who is with the Count 
d’Artois. The surplus, that is to say, 
the ten thousand francs remaining, I give 
to you — they are yours.’ 

“She seemed to recover her strength. 
She raised herself in bed, and holding 
the crucifix attached to her rosary to my 
lips, she said : 

“ ‘Swear by she image of our Saviour, 
that you will faithfully execute the last 
will of your dying god-mother.’ ” 

“I took the required oath, and an ex- 
pression of satisfaction overspread her 
features. 

“ ‘That is well,’ she said : ‘I shall die 
content. Yon will have a protector on 
high. But this is not all. In times like 
these in which we live, this gold will not 
be safe in your hands unless those about 
you are ignorant that you possess it. I 
have been endeavoring to discover some 
way by which you could remove it from 
my room, and from the chateau, without 
the knoAvledge of any one ; and I have 
found a way. The gold is here in this 
cupboard at the head of my bed, in 
a stout oaken chest. You must find 
strength to move the chest — you must. 
You can fasten a sheet around it, and let 
it down gently from the window into the 
garden. You will then leave the house 
as you entered it, and as soon as you are 
outside, you must take the chest and 
carry it to your home. The night is very 
dark, and no one will see you, if you are 
careful. But make haste ; my strength 
is nearly gone.’ ” 

“The chest was heavy, but I was very 
strong.” 

“In less than ten minutes the task of 
removing the chest from the chateau was 
accomplished, without a single sound 
that would betray us. As I closed the 
window, I said : 

“ ‘It is done, god-mother.’ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


127 


u ‘God be praised !’ she whispered, 
Sairmeuse is saved I’ 

4 *I heard a deep sigh. I turned ; she 
was dead.” 

This scene that M. Lacheneur was re- 
lating, rose vividly before him. 

To feign, to disguise the truth, or to 
conceal any portion of it was an impossi- 
bility. 

He forgot himself and his daughter; 
he thought only of the dead woman, of 
Mile. Armande de Sairmeuse. 

And he shuddered on pronouncing the 
■words : “She was dead.” 'It seemed to 
him that she was sbout to speak, and to 
insist upon the fulfillment of his pledge. 

After a moment’s silence, he resumed, 
in a hollow voice : 

“I called for aid — it came. Mile. Ar- 
mand was adored by every one; there 
was great lamentation, and a half hour 
of indescribable confusion followed her 
death. I was able to withdraw, un- 
noticed, to run into the garden, and to 
carry away the oaken chest. An hour 
later, it was concealed in the miserable 
hovel m which I dwelt. The following 
year I purchased Sairmeuse.” 

He had confessed ail ; and he paused 
trembling, trying to read his sentence in 
the eyes of his daughter. 

“And can you hesitate?” she de- 
manded. 

“Ah ! you do not know ” 

“I know that Sairmeuse must be given 
up.” 

This was the decree of his own con- 
science, that faint voice which speaks 
only in a whisper, but which all the 
tumult on earth cannot overpower. 

“No one saw me take away the chest,” 
he faltered. “If any one suspected it, 
there is not a single proof against me. 
But no one does suspect it.” 

Marie Anne rose, her eyes flashed with 
generous indignation. 

“My father!” she exclaimed, “oh ! my 
father !” 

Then in a calmer tone, she added : 

“If others know nothing of this, can 
you forget it?” 

M. Lacheneur appeared almost ready 
to succumb to the torture of the terrible 
conflict raging in his soul. 

“Return !” he exclaimed. “What shall 
I return? That which I have received? 
So be it. I consent. I will give the 
duke the eighty thousand francs ; to this 
amount I will add the interest on this 
sum since I have had it, and — we shall be 
free of all obligation.” 

The girl sadiy shook her head. 

“Why do you resort to subterfuges 
which are so unworthy of you?” she 
asked, gently. “You know perfectly 
well that it was Sairmeuse which Mile. 
Armande intended to entrust to the ser- 


vant of her house. And it is Sairmeuse 
which must be returned.” 

The word “servant” was revolting to a 
man, who, at least, while the empire en- 
dured, had been a power in the land. 

“Ah ! you are cruel, my daughter,” he 
said, with intense bitterness, “as cruel as 
a child who has never suffered — as cruel 
as one who, having never himself been 
tempted, is without mercy for those who 
have yielded to temptation. 

“It is one of those acts which God 
alone can judge, since God alone can read 
the depths of one’s secret soul. 

“I am only a depositary, you tell me. 
It was, indeed, in this light that I for- 
merly regarded myself. 

“If your poor sainted mother was still 
alive, she w T ould tell you the anxiety 
and anguish I felt on being made the 
master of riches which were not mine. 
I trembled lest I should yield to their se- 
ductions ; I was afraid of myself. I felt 
as a gambler might feel who had the 
winnings of others confided to his care ; 
as a drunkard might feel who had been 
placed in charge of a quantity of the 
most delicious wines. 

“Your mother would tell you that I 
moved heaven and earth to find the Duke 
de Sairmeuse. But he had left the Count 
d’ Artois, and no one knew where he had 
gone or what had become of him. Ten 
years passed before I could make up 
my mind to inhabit the chateau — yes, ten 
years — during which I had the furniture 
dusted each morning as if the master 
w r as to return that evening. 

“At last I ventured. I had heard M. 
d’Escorval declare that the duke had 
been killed in battle. I took up my 
abode here. And from day to day, in 
proportion as the domain of Sairmeuse 
became more beautiful and extensive be- 
neath my care, I felt myself more and 
more its rightful owner. 

But this dispairing pleading in behalf 
of a bad cause produced no impression 
upon Marie-Anne’s loyal heart. 

“Restitution must be made,” she re- 
peated. 

M. Lacheneur w r rung his hands. 

“Implacable !” he exclaimed; “she is 
implacable. Unfortunate girl ! does she 
not understand that it is for her sake I 
wish to remain where I am. I am old ; 
and I am familiar with toil and poverty ; 
idleness has not removed the callosities 
from my hands. What do I require to 
keep me alive until the day comes for me 
to take my place in the graveyard? A 
crust of bread and an onion in the morn- 
ing, a porringer of soup in the evening, 
and for the night a bundle of straw. I 
could easily earn that. But you, un- 
happy child! and your brother, what 
will become of you?” 


128 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“We must not discuss nor haggle with 
duty, my father. I think, however, that 
you are needlessty alarmed. I believe 
the duke is too noble-hearted ever to allow 
you to suffer want after the immense serv- 
ice you have rendered him.” 

The old servitor of the house of Sair- 
meuse laughed a loud, bitter laugh. 

“You believe that!” said he, “Then 
you do not know the nobles who have 
been our masters for ages. 4 A., you are 
a worthy fellow!’ — very coldly said — 
will be the only recompense I shall re- 
ceive ; and you will see us — me, at my 
plough — you, out at service. And if I 
venture to speak of the ten thousand 
francs that were given me, I shall be 
treated as an impostor, as an impudent 
fool. By the holy name of God this shall 
not be!’ 

“Oh, my father !” 

“No! this shall not be. And I realize 
— as you cannot realize — the disgrace of 
such a fall. You think you are beloved 
in Sairmeuse? — you are mistaken. We 
have been too fortunate not to be the 
victims of hatred and jealousy. If I fall 
to-morrow, you will see all who kissed 
your hands to-day fall upon you to tear 
you to pieces !” 

His eye glittered ; he believed he had 
found a victorious argument. 

“And then you, yourself, will realize 
the horror of the disgrace. It will cost 
you the deadly anguish of a separation 
from him whom your heart has chosen.” 

He had spoken truly, for Marie-Anne’s 
beautiful eyes filled with tears. 

“If w hat you say proves true, father,” 
she murmured, in an altered voice, “I 
may, perhaps, die of sorrow ; but I can- 
not fail to realize that my confidence and 
my love has been misplaced.” 

“And you still insist upon my return- 
ing Sairmeuse to its former owner?” 

“Honor speaks, my father.” 

M. Lacheneur made the arm-chair in 
which he was seated tremble by a violent 
blow of his fist. 

“And if I am just as obstinate,” he ex- 
claimed — “if 1 keep the property — what 
will you do?” 

“I shall say to myself, father, that 
honest poverty is better than stolen 
wealth. I shall leave this chateau, which 
belongs to the Duke de Sairmeuse, and I 
shall seek a situation as a servant in the 
neighborhood.” 

M. Lacheneur sank back in his arm- 
chair sobbing. He knew his daughter’s 
nature well enough to be assured that 
what she said, that she would do. 

But he was conquered: his daughter 
had wmn the battle. He had decided to 
make the heroic sacrifice. 

“I will relinquish Sairmeuse,” he fal- 
tered, “come what may ” 

He paused suddenly; a visitor was en- 


tering the room. 

It was a young man about twenty years 
of age, of distinguished appearance, but 
w r ith a rather melancholy and gentle 
manner. 

His eyes when he entered the apartment 
encountered those of Marie-Anne; he 
blushed slightly, and the girl half- 
turned away, crimsoning to the roots of 
her hair. 

“Monsieur,” said the young man, “my 
father sends me to inform you that the 
Duke de Sairmeuse and his son have just 
arrived. They have asked the hospital- 
ity of our cure.” 

M. Lacheneur rose, unable to conceal 
his frightful agitation. 

“You will thank the Baron d’Escorval 
for his attention, my dear Maurice,” he 
responded. “I shall have the honor of 
seeing him to-day, after a very momen- 
tous step which we are about to take, my 
daughter and I.” 

Young d’Escorval had seen, at the first 
glance, that his presence was inopportune, 
so he remained only a few moments. 

But as he was taking leave. Marie-Anne 
found time to say in a low voice : 

“I think I know your heart, Maurice; 
this evening I shall know it certainly.” 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

Few of the inhabitants of Sairmeuse 
knew, except by name, the terrible duke 
whose arrival had thrown the whole vil- 
lage into commotion. 

Some of the oldest residents had a faint 
recollection of having seen him long ago, 
before ’89 indeed, when he came to visit 
his aunt, Mile. Armande. 

His duties, then, had seldom permitted 
him to leave the court. 

If he had given no sign of life during 
the empire, it was because he had not 
been compelled to submit to the humilia- 
tions and suffering which so many of the 
emigrants were obliged to endure in their 
exile. 

On the contrary, he had received in 
exchange for the wealth of which he had 
been deprived by the revolution, a prince- 
ly fortune. 

Taking refuge in London after the de- 
feat of the army of Conde, he had been 
so fortunate as to please the only daugh- 
ter of Lord Holland, one of the richest 
peers in England, and he had married 
her. 

She possessed a fortune of two hundred 
and fifty thousand pounds sterling, more 
than six million francs. 

Still the marriage was not a happy one. 
The chosen companion of the dissipated 
and licentious Count d’Artois, was not 
likely to prove a very good husband. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


129 


The y minor duchess was contemplating 
a separation when she died, in giving- 
birth to a boy, who was baptized under 
the names of Anne-Marie-Martial. 

The loss of his wife did not render the 
Duke de Sairmeuse inconsolable. 

He was free and richer than he had 
ever been. 

As soon as les convenances permitted, 
he confided his son to the care of a rela- 
tive of his wife, and began his roving 
life again. 

Rumor had told the truth. He had 
fought, and that furiously, against 
France in the Austrian, and then in the 
Russian ranks. 

And he took no pains to conceal the 
fact; convinced that he had only per- 
formed his duty. He considered that he 
had honestly and loyally gained the 
rank of general which the Emperor of 
all the Russias had bestowed upon him. 

He had not returned to France during 
the first Restoration; but his absence 
had been involuntary. His father-in- 
law, Lord Holland, had just died, and 
the duke was detained in London by 
business connected with his son's im- 
mense inheritance. 

Then followed the “Hundred Days.” 
They exasperated him. 

But “the good cause,” as he styled it, 
having triumphed anew, he hastened to 
France. 

Alas ! Lacheneur judged the character 
of his former master correctly, when 
he resisted the entreaties of his daugh- 
ter. 

This man, who had been compelled to 
conceal himself during the first Restor- 
ation, knew only too well, that the re- 
turned emigres had learned nothing and 
forgotten nothing. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was no excep- 
tion to the rule. 

He thought, and nothing could be 
more sadly absurd, that a mere act of 
authority would suffice to suppress for- 
ever, all the events of the Revolution 
and of the empire. 

When he said : “I do not admit that !” 
he firmly believed that there was nothing 
more to be said; that controversy was 
ended ; and that what had been was as if 
it had never been. 

If some, who had seen Louis XVIII. 
at the helm in 1814, assured the duke 
that France had changed in many re- 
spects since 1789, he responded with a 
slirug of the shoulders : 

“Nonsense ! As soon as we assert our- 
selves, all these rascals whose rebellion 
alarms you, will quietly slink out of 
sight.” 

Such was really his opinion. 

On the way from Montaignac to Sair- 
meuse, the duke, comfortably ensconced 
in his berlin, unfolded his theories for 
the benefit of his son. 


“The king has been poorly advised,” 
he said, in conclusion. “Bt sides, I am 
disposed to believe that he inclines too 
much to Jacobinism. If he would listen 
to my advice, he would make use of the 
twelve hundred thousand soldiers which 
our f riends have placed at his disposal, 
to bring his subjects to a sense of their 
duty. Twelve hundred thousand bayo- 
nets have far more eloquence than the 
articles of a charter.” 

He continued his remarks on this sub- 
ject until the carriage approached Sair- 
meuse. 

Though but little given to sentiment, 
he was really affected by the sight of the 
country in which he was born— where he 
had played as a child, and of which he 
had heard nothing since the death of his 
aunt. 

Everything was changed : still the out- 
lines of the landscape remained the 
same; the valley of the Oiselle was as 
bright and laughing as in days gone by. 

“I recognize it !” he exclaimed, with a 
delight that made him forget politics. 
“I recognize it !” 

Soon the changes became more strik- 
ing. 

The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and 
rattled over the stones of the only street 
in the village. 

This street, in former years, had been 
unpaved, and had always been rendered 
impassable by wet weather. 

“Ah, ha!” murmured the duke, “this 
is an improvement !” 

It was not long before he noticed 
others. The dilapidated, thatched 
hovels had given place to pretty and 
comfortable white cottages with green 
blinds, and a vine hang.ng gracefully 
over the door. 

As the carriage passed the public 
square in front of the church, Martial 
observed the groups of peasants who 
were still talking there. 

“ What do you think of all these peas- 
ants?” he inquired of his father. *'Do 
they have the appearance of people who 
are preparing a triumphal reception for 
their old masters?” 

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his should- 
ers. He was not the man to renounce 
an illusion for such a trifle. 

“They do not know that I am in this 
post-chaise,” he replied. “When they 
know ” 

Shouts of “Vive M. le Due de Sair- 
meuse !” interrupted him. 

“Do you her that, marquis?” he ex- 
claimed. 

And pleased by these cries that proved 
him in the right, he leaned from the car- 
riage-window, waving his hand to the 
honest Chupin family, who were run- 
ning after the vehicle with noisy shouts. 

The old rascal, his wife, and his child- 
ren, all possessed powerful voices; and, 


9 


130 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


it was not strange that the duke believed 
the whole village was welcoming him. 
He was convinced of it ; and when the 
berlin stopped before the house of the 
cwre, M. de Sairmeuse was persuaded 
that the prestige of the nobility was 
greater than ever. 

Upon the threshold of the parsonage, 
Bibiaine, the old housekeeper, was 
standing. She knew who these guests 
must be, for the erne's servants always 
know what is going on. 

“Monsieur has not yet returned from 
church,” she said, in response to the 
duke’s inquiry; “but if the gentlemen 
wish to wait, it will not be long before 
he comes, for the poor, dear man has 
not breakfasted yet.” 

“Let us go in,” the duke said to his 
son. 

And guided by the housekeeper, they 
entered a sort of drawing-room, where 
the table was spread. 

M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of 
the apartment in a single glance. The 
habits of a house reveal those of its mas- 
ter. This was clean, poor, and bare. 
The walls were whitewashed; a dozen 
chairs composed the entire furniture; 
upon the table, laid with monastic sim- 
plicity, were only tin dishes. 

This was either the abode of an am- 
bitious man or a saint. 

“Will these gentlemen take any re- 
freshments?” inquired Bibiaine. 

“Upon my word,” replied Martial, “I 
must confess that the drive has whetted 
my appetite amazingly.” 

“Blessed Jesus!” exclaimed the old 
housekeeper, in evident despair. “What 
am I to do? I, who have nothing ! That 
is to say — yes — I have an old hen left in 
the coop. Give me time to wring its 
neck, to pick it. and clean it ” 

She paused to listen, and they heard a 
step in the passage. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “here is Mon- 
sieur le Cure now !” 

The son of a poor farmer in the en- 
virons of Montaignac, he owed his Lgtin 
and tonsure to the privations of his 
family. 

Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as 
cold and impassive as the stones of his 
church. 

By what immense efforts of will, at the 
cost of what torture, had he made him- 
self what he was? One could form some 
idea of the terrible restraint to which he 
had subjected himself by looking at his 
eyes, which occasionally emitted the 
lightnings of an impassioned soul. 

Was he old or young? The most subtle 
observer would have hesitated to say on 
seeing this pallid and emaciated face, cut 
in two by an immense nose — a real eagle's 
beak— as thin as the edge of a razor. 

lie wore a white cassock, which had 
been patched and darned in numberless 


places, but which was a marvel of clean- 
liness. and which hung about his tall, 
attenuated body like the sails of a dis- 
abled vessel. 

He was known as the Abbe Midon. 

At the sight of the two strangers seated 
in his drawing-room, he manifested some 
slight surprise. 

The carriage standing before the door 
had announced the presence of a visitor; 
but he had expected to find one of his 
parishioners. 

No one had warned him or the sac- 
ristan, and he was wondering with whom 
he had to deal, and what they desired of 
him. 

Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, 
but the cld servant had taken flight. 

The duke understood his hosts aston- 
ishment. 

“Upon my word, abbe!” he said, with 
the impertinent ease of a grand siegneur 
who makes himself at home everywhere, 
“we have taken your house by storm, 
and hold the position, as you see. I am 
the Duke de Sairmeuse, and this is my 
son, the marquis. 

The priest bowed, but he did not seem 
very greatly impressed by the exalted 
rank of his guests. 

“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, 
in a more than reserved tone, “to receive 
a visit from the former master of this 
place.” 

He emphasized this word “former,” in 
such a manner that it was impossible to 
doubt his sentiments and his opinions. 

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “you 
will not find here the comforts to which 
you are accustomed, and I fear ” 

“Nonsense!” interrupted the duke. 
“An old soldier is not fastidious, and 
what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, 
will suffice for us. And rest assured that 
we shall amply repay you in one way or 
another for any inconvenience we may 
cause you.” 

The priest’s eye flashed. This want of 
tact,, this disagreeable familiarity, this 
last insulting remark, kindled the anger 
of the man concealed beneath the priest. 

“Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we 
have been vastly amused by Bibiaine’s 
anxieties, we already know that there is 
a chicken in the coop ” 

“That is to say there was one, Mon- 
sieur le Marquis.” 

The old housekeeper, who suddenly 
reappeared, explained her master’s re- 
sponse. She seemed overwhelmed with 
despair. 

“Blessed Virgin! monsieur, what shall 
I do?” she clamored. “The chicken has 
.disappeared. Some one has certainly 
stolen it, for the coop is securely closed !” 

“Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” 
interrupted the cure ; “no one has stolen 
it from us. Bertrande was here this 
morning to ask alms in the name of her 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


131 


sick daughter. I had no money, and I 
gave her this fowl that she might make 
a good bouillon for the sick girl.” 

This explanation changed Bibiaine's 
consternation to fury. 

Planting herself in the centre of the 
room, one hand upon her hip, and ges- 
ticulating wildly with the other, she ex- 
claimed, pointing to her master : 

. “That is just the sort of man he is; he 
has less sense than a baby ! Any mis- 
erable peasant who meets him can make 
Jhim believe anything he wishes. Any 
great falsehood brings tears to his eyes, 
and then they can do what they like with 
him. In that way they take the very 
shoes off his feet and the bread from his 
mouth. Bertrande's daughter, messieurs, 
is no more ill than you or 1 1” 

“Enough,” said the priest, sternly, 
“enough.” Then, knowing by expe- 
rience that his voice had not the power 
to check her flood of reproaches, he took 
her by the arm and led her out into the 
passage. 

M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged 
a glance of consternation. 

Was this a comedy that had been pre- 
pared for their benefit ? Evidently not, 
since their arrival had not been expected. 

But the priest, whose character had 
been so plainly revealed by this quarrel 
with his domestic, was not a man to their 
taste. • 

At least, he was evidently not the man 
they had hoped to find — not the auxiliary 
whose assistance was indispensable to the 
success of their plans. 

Yet they did not exchange a word; 
they listened. 

They heard the sound as of a discus- 
sion in the passage. The master spoke 
in low tones, but with an unmistakable 
accent of command; the servant uttered 
an astonished exclamation. 

But the listeners could not distinguish 
a word. 

Soon the priest re-entered the apart- 
ment. 

“I hope, gentlemen,” he said, with a 
dignity that could not fail to check any 
attempt at raillery, “that you will excuse 
this ridiculous scene. The cure of Sair- 
meuse, thank God ! is not so poor as she 
says.” 

Neither the duke nor Martial made any 
response. 

Even their remarkable assurance was 
very sensibly diminished; and M. de 
Sairmeuse deemed it advisable to change 
the subject. 

This he did, by relating the events 
which he had just witnessed in Paris, and 
by insisting that his majesty, Louis 
XVIII., had been welcomed with enthu- 
siasm and transports of affection. 

Fortunately, the old housekeeper in- 
terrupted this recital. 

She entered, loaded with china, silver, 


and bottles, and behind her came a large 
man in a white apron, bearing three or 
four covered dishes in his hands. 

It was the order to go and obtain this 
repast from the village inn which had 
drawn from Bibiaine so many exclama- 
tions of wonder and dismay in the pas- 
sage. 

A moment later the cure and his guests 
took their places at the table. 

Had the much-lamented chicken con- 
stituted the dinner the rations would 
have been “short.” This the worthy 
woman was obliged to confess, on seeing 
the terrible appetite evinced by M. 
de Sairmeuse and his son. 

“One would have sworn that they had 
eaten nothing for a fortnight,” she told 
her friends, the next day. 

Abbe Midon was not hungry, though it 
was two o’clock, and he had eaten noth- 
ing since the previous evening. 

The sudden arrival of the former mas- 
ters of Sairmeuse fided his heart with 
gloomy forebodings. Their coming, he 
believed, presaged the greatest misfor- 
tunes. 

So while he played with his knife and 
fork, pretending to eat, he was really oc- 
cupied in watching his guests, and in 
studying them with all the penetration 
of a priest, which, by the way. is gen- 
erally far superior to that of a physician 
or of a magistrate. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, 
but looked considerably younger. 

The storms of his youth, the dissipa- 
tion of his riper years, the great excesses 
of every kind in which he had indulged, 
had not impaired his iron constitution in 
the least. 

Of herculean build, he was extremely 
proud of his strength, and of his hands, 
which were well-formed, but large, firm- 
ly knit and powerful, such hands as 
rightfully belonged to a gentleman whose 
ancestors had given many a crushing 
blow with ponderous battle-axe in the 
crusades. 

His face revealed his character. He 
possessed all the graces and all the vices 
of a courtier. 

He was, at the same time spirituel and 
ignorant, skeptical and violently imbued 
with the prejudices of his class. 

Though less robust than his father, 
Martial was a no less distinguished look- 
ing cavalier. It was not strange that 
women raved over his blue eyes, and the 
beautiful blonde hair which he inherited 
from his mother. 

To his father he owed energy, courage, 
and, it must also be added, perversity. 
But he was his superior in education and 
in intellect. If he shared his father’s 
prejudices, he had not adopted them 
without weighing them carefully. What 
the father might do in a moment of ex- 


132 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


citement, the son was capable of doing in 
cold blood. 

It was thus that the abbe, with rare 
sagacity, read the character of his 
guests. 

So it was with great sorrow, but with- 
out surprise, that he heard the duke ad- 
vance, on the questions of the day, the 
impossible ideas shared by nearly all the 
emigres . 

Knowing the condition of the country, 
and the state of public opinion, the cure 
endeavored to convince the obstinate man 
of his mistake; but upon this subject, 
the duke would not permit contradiction, 
or even raillery ; and he was fast losing 
his temper, when Bibiaine appeared at 
the parlor door. 

“Monsieur le Due,” said she, “M. La- 
cheneur and his daughter are without 
and desire to speak to you.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

This name Lacheneur awakened no re- 
collection in the mind of the duke. 

First, he had never lived at Sairmeuse. 

And even if he had, what courtier of 
the ancien regime ever troubled himself 
about the individual names of the peas- 
ants, whom he regarded with such pro- 
found indifference. 

When a grand seigneur addressed these 
people, he said: “Halloo! hi, there! 
friend, my worthy fellow !” 

So it was with the air of a man who is 
making an effort of memory that the 
Duke de Sairmeuse repeated : 

“Lacheneur — M. Lacheneur ” 

But Martial, a closer observer than his 
father, had noticed that the priest’s 
glance wavered at the sound of this 
name. 

••Who is this person, abbe?” demanded 
the duke, lightly. 

“M. Lacheneur,” replied the priest 
with very evident hesitation, “is the 
present owner of the Chateau de Sair- 
meuse.” 

Martial, the precocious diplomat, 
could not repress a smile on hearing this 
response, which he had foreseen. But 
the duke bounded from his chair. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is the rascal 

who has had the impudence Let him 

come in, old woman, let him come in.” 

Bibiaine retired, and the priest’s uneasi- 
ness increased. 

“Permit me, Monsieur le Due,” he 
said, hastily, “to remark that M. Lach- 
eneur exercises a great influence in this 
region — to offend him would be im- 
politic ” 

“I understand — you advise me to be 
conciliatory. Such sentiments are purely 
Jacobin. If his majesty listens to the 
advice of such as you, all these sales of 


confiscated estates will be ratified. 
Zounds ! our interests are the same. If 
the Revolution has deprived the nobility 
of their property, it has also impoverished 
the clergy.” 

“The possessions of a priest are not of 
this world, monsieur,” said the cure , 
coldly. 

M. de Sairmeuse was about to make 
some impertinent response, when M. La- 
cheneur appeared, followed by his 
daughter. 

The wretched man was ghastlj r pale, 
great drops of perspiration stood out 
upon his temples, his restless, haggard 
eyes revealed his distress of mind. 

Marie-Anne was as pale as her father, 
but her attitude and the light that burned 
in her eyes told of invincible energy and 
determination. 

“Ah, well ! friend,” said the duke, “so 
we are the owner of Sairmeuse, it seems.” 

This was said with such a careless inso- 
lence of manner that the cure blushed 
that they should thus treat, in his own 
house, a man whom he considered his 
equal. 

He rose and offered the visitors chairs. 

“Will you take a seat, dear Monsieur 
Lacheneur?” said he, with a policeness 
intended as a lesson for the duke; “and 
you, also, mademoiselle, do me the honor 


But the father and the daughter both 
refused the proffered civility with a mo- 
tion of the head. 

“Monsieur le Due,” continued Lachen- 
eur, “I am 'an old servant of your house 


“Ah! indeed!” 

“Mademoiselle Armande, your aunt, 
accorded my poor mother the honor of 
acting as my godmother ” 

“Ah, yes,” interrupted the duke. “I 
remember you now. Our family has 
shown great goodness to you and yours. 
And it was to prove your gratitude, prob- 
ably, that you made haste to purchase 
our estate I” 

The former ploughboy was of humble 
origin, but his heart and his character 
had developed with his fortunes ; he un- 
derstood his own worth. 

Much as he was disliked, and even de- 
tested, by his neighbors, every one re- 
spected him. 

And here was a man who treated him 
with undisguised scorn. Why? By 
what right ? 

Indignant at the outrage, he made a 
movement as if to retire. 

No one, save his daughter, knew the 
truth ; he had only to keep silence and 
Sairmeuse remained his. 

Yes, he had still the power to keep 
Sairmeuse, and he knew it, for he did 
not share the fears of the ignorant rus- 
tics. He was too well informed not to 
be able to distinguish between the hopes 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


133 


of the emigres and the possible. He 
knew that an abyss separated the dream 
from the reality. 

A beseeching word, uttered in a low tone 
by his daughter, made him turn again to 
the duke. 

“If I purchased Sairmeuse,” he an- 
swered, in a voice husky with emotion, 
‘•it was in obedience to the command of 
your dying aunt, and with the money 
which she gave me for that purpose. If 
you see me here, it is only because I 
come to restore to you the deposit con- 
fided to my keeping.” 

Any one not belonging to that class of 
spoiled fools which surround a throne 
would have been deeply touched. 

But the duke thought this grand act 
of honesty and of generosity the most 
simple and natural thing in the world. 

“That is very well, so far ns the prin- 
cipal is concerned,” said he. “Let us 
speak now of the inte est. Sairmeuse, 
if I remember rightly, yielded an average 
income of one thousand louis per year. 
These revenues, well invested, should 
have amounted to a very considerable 
amount. Where is this?” 

This claim, thus advanced and at such 
a moment, was so outrageous, that Mar- 
tial, disgusted, made a sign to his father 
which tiie latter did not see. 

But the cure hoping to recall the extor- 
tioner to something like a sense of shame, 
exclaimed : 

“Monsieur le Due! Oh, Monsieur le 
Due !” 

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders with 
an air of resignation. 

“The income I have used for my own 
living expenses, and in educating my 
children; but most of it has been ex- 
pended in improving the estate, which to- 
day yields an income twice as large as in 
former years.” 

“That is to say, for twenty years, Mon- 
sieur Lacheneur has played the part of 
lord of the manor. A delightful comedy. 
You are rich now, I suppose.” 

“I possess nothing. But I hope you 
will allow me to take ten thousand francs, 
which your aunt gave to me .” 

“Ah! she gave you ten thousand 
francs? And when?” 

k -On the same evening that she gave 
me the eighty thousand francs intended 
for the purchase of the estate.” 

“Perfect! What proof can you fur- 
nish that she gave you this sum?” 

Lacheneur stood motionless and speech- 
less. He tried to reply, but he could not. 
If he opened his lips it would only be to 
pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults, 
and invectives. 

Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward. 

“The proof, monsieur,” said she, in a 
clear, ringing voice, “is the word of this 
man, who, of his own free will, comes to 
return to you— to give you a fortune.” 


t 

As she sprang forward, her beautiful 
dark hair escaped from its confinement, 
the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her 
dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, 
anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted 
a sublime expression to her face. 

She was so beautiful that Martial re- 
garded her with wonder. 

“Lovely!” he murmured, in English; 
“beautiful as an angel!” 

These words, which she understood, 
abashed Marie-Anne. But she had said 
enough; her father felt that he was 
avenged. 

He drew from his pocket a roll of pa- 
pers. and throwing them upon the table : 

“Here are your titles,” he said, ad- 
dressing the duke in a tone full of im- 
placable hatred. “Keep the legacy that 
your aunt gave me, I wish mothing of 
yours. I shall never set foot in Sair- 
meuse again. Penniless I entered it, pen- 
niless I will leave it!” 

He quitted the room with head proud- 
ly erect, and when they were outside, he 
said but one word to his daughter : 

“Well !” 

“You have done your duty,” she re- 
plied; “it is those who have not done it, 
who are to be pitied!” 

She had no opportunity to say more. 
Martial came running after them, anxious 
for another chance of seeing this young 
girl whose beauty had made such an im- 
pression upon him. 

“I hastened after you,” he said, ad- 
dressing Marie Marie-Anne, rather than 
M. Lacheneur, “to reassure you. All 
this will be arranged, madainoiselle. 
Eyes so beautiful as yours should never 
know tears. I will be your advocate 
with my father ” 

“Mile. Lachoneur has no need of an 
advocate !” a harsh voice interrupted. 

Martial turned, and saw the young 
man, who, that morning, went to warn 
M. Lacheneur of the duke's arrival. 

“I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse,” he 
said, insolently. * 

“And I,” said the other quietly, “am 
Maurice d’Escorval.” 

They surveyed each other for a mo- 
ment ; each expecting, perhaps* an insult 
from the other. Instinctively, they felt 
that they were to be enemies; and the 
bitterest animosity spoke in the glances 
they exchanged. Perhaps they felt a 
presentiment that they were to be cham- 
pions of two different principles, as well 
as rivals. 

Martial, remembering his father, 
yielded- 

“We shall meet again, Monsieur d’Es- 
corval,” he said, as he retired. At this 
threat, Maurice shrugged his shoulders, 
and said : 

“You had better not desire it.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


134 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 


The abode of the Baron d’Escorval 
that brick structure with stone trimmings 
which was visible from the superb avenue 
leading to Sairmeuse, was small and un 
pretentious. 

Its chief attraction was a pretty lawn 
that extended to the banks of the Oiselle 
and a small but beautifully shaded park 

It was known as the Chateau d’Escor- 
val, but that appellation was gross flat- 
tery. Any petty manufacturer who hac 
amassed a small fortune would have de- 
sired a larger, handsomer, and more im- 
posing establishment. 

M. d’Escorval — and it will be an eter- 
nal honor to him in history — was not 
rich. 

Although he had been entrusted with 
several of those missions from which 
generals and diplomats often return laden 
with millions, M. d’Escorval’s worldly 
possessions consisted only of the little 
patrimony bequeathed him by his father : 
a property which yielded an income of 
from twenty to twenty-five thousand 
francs a year. 

This modest dwelling, situated about a 
mile from Sairmeuse, represented the 
savings of ten years. 

He had built it in 1806, from a plan 
drawn by his own hand ; and it was the 
dearest spot on earth to him. 

He always hastened to this retreat when 
his work allowed him a few days of rest. 

But this time, he had not come to Es- 
corval of his own free will. 

He had been compelled to leave Paris 
by the proscribed list of the 24th of July 
— that fatal list which summoned the en 
thusiastic Labedoyere and the honest and 
virtuous Drouot before a court-martial. 

And even in this solitude, M. d’Escor- 
val’s situation was not without danger. 

He was one of those who, some days 
before the disaster of Waterloo, had 
strongly urged the emperor to order the 
execution of Fouehe, the former minister 
of police. 

Now, Eouche knew this counsel; and 
he was powerful. 

“Take care!” M. d’Escorval’s friends 
wrote him from Paris. 

But he put his trust in Providence, and 
faced the future, threatening though it 
was, with the unalterable serenity of a 
pure conscience. 

The baron -was still young ; he was not 
yet fifty, but anxiety, work, and long 
nights passed in struggling with the most 
arduous difficulties of the imperial policy, 
had made him old before his time. 

He was tall, slightly inclined to embon- 
point, and stooped a little. 

His calm eyes, his serious mouth, his 
broad, furrowed forehead, and his austere 
manners inspired respect. 


“He must be stem and inflexible,” said 
those who saw him for the first time. _• 
But they were mistaken. 

If, in the exercise of his official duties, 
this truly great man had the strength to 
resist all temptations to swerve from the 
path of right; if, when duty was at 
stake, he was as rigid as iron, in private 
life he was as unassuming as a child, and 
kind and gentle even to the verge of 
weakness. 

To this nobility of character, he owed 
his domestic happiness, that rare and 
precious happiness which fills one’s ex- 
istence with a celestial perfume. 

During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign 
of Terror, M. d’Escorval had wrested 
from the guillotine a young girl, named 
Victoire-Laure de ’Alleu, a distant cousin 
of the Rhetaus of Commarin, as beautiful 
as an angel, 'and only three years younger 
than himself. 

He loved her — and though she was an 
orphan, destitute of fortune, he married 
her, considering the treasure of her vir- 
gin heart of far greater value than the 
most magnificent dowry. 

She was an honest woman, as her hus- 
band was an honest man, in the most 
strict and vigorous sense of the word. 

She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, 
where M. d’Escorval’s worth made him 
eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the 
Imperial Court, which at that time sur- 
passed all the pomp of the time of Louis 
XIV., had no attractions for her. 

Grace, beauty, youth and accomplish- 
ments — she reserved them all for the 
adornment of her home. 

Her husband was her God. She lived 
in him and through him. She had not a 
thought which did not belong to him. 

The short time that he could spare from 
lis arduous labors to devote to her were 
ler happiest hours. 

And when, in the evening, they sat be- 
side the fire in their modest drawing- 
room, with their son Maurice playing on 
the rug at their feet, it seemed to them 
that they had nothing to wish for here 
below. 

The overthrow of the empire surprised 
them in the heyday of their happiness. 

Surprised them? No. For a long time 
M. d’Escorval had seen the prodigious 
edifice erected by the genius whom he 
had made his idol totter as if about to 
fall. 

Certainly, he felt intense chagrin at 
this fall, but he was heart-broken at the 
sight of all the treason and cowardice 
which followed it. He was indignant 
and horrified at the rising en masse of the 
avaricious, who hastened to gorge them- 
selves with the spoil. 

Under these circumstances, exile from 
p aris seemed an actual blessing. 

“Besides,” as he remarked to the bar- 
oness, “we shall soon be forgotten here.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


135 


But even while he said this he felt 
many misgivings. Still, by his side, his 
noble wife presented a tranquil face, even 
while she trembled for the safety of her 
adored husband. 

On this first Sunday in August, M. 
d’ Escorval and his wife had been un- 
usually sad. A vague presentment of 
approaching misfortune weighed heavily 
upon their hearts. 

At the same hour that Lacheneur pre- 
sented himself at the house of the Abbe 
Midon, they were seated upon the terrace 
in front of the house, gazing anxiously 
at the two roads leading from Escorva 
to the chateau, and to the village of Sair- 
meuse. 

Warned, that same morning, by his 
friends in Montaignac of the arrival of 
the duke, the baron had sent his son to 
inform Mr. Lacheneur. 

He had requested him to be absent as 
short a time as possible; but in spite oi ! 
this fact, the hours were rolling by, anc 
Maurice had not returned. 

“What if something has happened to 
him!” both father and mother were 
thinking. 

No; nothing had happened to him. 
Only a word from Mile. Lacheneur hac 
sufficed to make him forget his usua 
deference to his father’s wishes. 

“This evening,” she had said, “I shall 
certainly know your heart.” 

What could this mean? Could she 
doubt him ? 

Tortured by the most cruel anxieties, 
the poor youth could not resolve to go 
away without an explanation, and he 
hung around the chateau hoping that 
Marie- Anne would reappear. 

She did reappear at last, but leaning 
upon the arm of her father. 

Young D'Escorval followed them at a 
distance, and soon saw them enter the 
parsonage. What were they going to do 
there? He knew that the duke and his 
son were within. 

The time that they remained there, and 
which he passed in the public square, 
seemed more than a century long. 

They emerged at last, however, and he 
was about to join them wiien he was pre- 
vented by the appearance of Martial, 
whose promises he overheard. 

Maurice knew nothing of life ; he was 
as innocent as a child, but he could not 
mistake the intentions that dictated this 
step on the part of the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse. 

At the thought that a libertine’s caprice 
should dare rest for an instant upon the 
pure and beautiful girl whom he loved 
with all the strength of his being — whom 
he had sworn should be his wife — all his 
blood mounted madly to his brain. 

He felt a wild longing to chastise the 
insolent wretch. 

Fortunately — unfortunately, perhaps — 


his hand was arrested by the recollection 
of a phrase which he had heard his father 
repeat a thousand times : 

“Calmness and irony are the only 
weapons worthy of the strong.” 

And he possessed sufficient strength of 
will to appear calm, while, in reality, ho 
was beside himself with passion. It was 
Martial who lost his self-control, and 
who threatened him. 

“Ah! yes, I will find you again, up- 
start !” repeated Maurice, through his set 
teeth as he watched his enemy move 
away. 

For Martial had turned and discovered 
that Marie-Anne and her father had left 
him. He saw them standing about a 
hundred paces from him. Although he 
was surprised at their indifference, he 
made haste to join them, and addressed 
M. Lacheneur. 

“We are just going to your father’s 
house,” was the response he received, in 
an almost ferocious tone. 

A glance from Marie-Anne commanded 
silence. He obeyed, and walked a few 
steps behind them, with his head bowed 
upon his breast, terribly anxious, and 
seeking vainly to explain what had 
passed. 

His attitude betrayed such intense sor- 
row that his mother divined it as soon as 
she caught sight of him. 

All the anguish which this courageous 
woman had hidden for a month, found 
utterance in a single cry. 

“Ah! here is misfortune!” said she: 
“we shall not escape it.” 

It was, indeed misfortune. One could 
not doubt it when one saw M. Lacheneur 
enter the drawing-room. 

He advanced with the heavy, uncertain 
step of a drunken man, his eye void of 
expression, his features distorted, his lips 
Dale and trembling. 

“What has happened?” asked the 
baron, eagerly. 

But the other did not seem to hear 
him. 

“Ah! I warned her,” he murmured, con- 
tinuing a monologue which had begun 
before he entered the room. I told my 
daughter so.” 

Mme. d’Escorval, after kissing Marie- 
Anne, drew the girl towards her. 

•“What has happened? For God’s sake, 
tell me what has happened!” she ex- 
claimed. 

With a gesture expressive of the most 
sorrowful resignation, the girl motioned 
ler to look and to listen to M. Lacheneur. 

He had recovered from that stupor — 
that gift of God — which follows cries 
that are. too terrible for human endur- 
ance. Like a sleeper who, on waking, 
finds his miseries forgotten during his 
lumber, lying in wait for him, he re- 
gained with consciousness the capacity 
to suffer. 


136 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“It is only this, Monsieur le Baron,” 
replied the unfortunate man in a harsh, 
unnatural voice: “I rose this morning 
the richest proprietor in the country, and 
I shall lay down to-night poorer than the 
poorest beggar in this commune. I had 
everything ; I no longer have anything — 
nothing but my two hands. They earned 
me my bread for twenty-five years ; they 
will earn it for me now until the day of 
my death. I had a beautiful dream ; it is 
ended.” 

Before this outburst of despair, M. 
d’Escorval turned pale. 

u You must exaggerate your misfor- 
tune,” he faltered; “explain what has 
happened.” 

Unconscious of what he was doing. M. 
Lacheneur threw his hat upon a chair, 
and flinging back his long, gray hair, he 
said : 

“To you I will tell all. I came here 
for that purpose. I know you : I know 
your heart. And have you not done me 
the honor to call me your friend?” 

Then, with the . cruel exactness of the 
living, breathing truth, he related the 
scene which had just taken place at the 
presbytery. 

The baron listened petrified with as- 
tonishment, almost doubting the evidence 
of his own senses. Mme. d’Escorval’s 
indignant and sorrowful exclamations 
showed that every noble sentiment in her 
£oul revolted against such injustice. 

But there was one auditor, whom Marie- 
Anne alone observed, who was moved to 
his very entrails by this recital. This 
auditor was Maurice. 

Leaning against the door, pale as death, 
he tried most energetically, but in vain, 
to repress the tears of rage and of sorrow 
which swelled up in his eyes. 

To insult Lacheneur was to insult 
Marie-Anne — that is to say, to injure, to 
strike, to outrage him in all that he held 
most dear in the world. 

Ah! it is certain that Martial, had he 
been within his reach would have paid 
dearly for these insults to the father of 
the girl Maurice loved. 

But he swore that this chastisement 
was only deferred — that it should surely 
come. 

And it was not mere angry boasting. 
This young man, though so modest and 
so gentle in manner, had a heart that was 
inaccessible to fear. His beautiful, dark 
eyes, which had the trembling timidity 
of the eyes of a young girl, met the gaze 
of an enemy w ithout flinching. 

When M. Lacheneur had repeated the 
last words which he had addressed to the 
Luke de Sairmeuse, M. d’Escorval offered 
him his hand. 

“I have told you already that I was 
your friend,” he said, in a voice faltering 
with emotion; “but I must tell you to- 


day that I am proud of having such a 
friend as you.” 

The unfortunate man trembled at the 
touch of that loyal hand which clasped 
his so warmly, and his face betrayed an 
ineffable satisfaction. 

“If my father had not returned it,” 
murmured the obstinate Marie-Anne. 
“my father would have been an unfaithful 
guardian — a thief. He has done only his 
duty.” 

M. d’Escorval turned to the young girl, 
a little surprised. 

“You speak the truth, mademoiselle,” 
he said, reproachfully; “but when you 
are as old as I am, and have had my ex- 
perience, you will know that the accom- 
plishment of a duty is, under certain cir- 
cumstances, a heroism of which few per- 
sons are capable.” 

M. Lacheneur turned to his friend. 

“Ah! your words do me good, mon- 
sieur,” said he. “Now, I am content 
with what I have done.” 

The baroness rose, too much the woman 
to know how to resist the generous dic- 
tates of her heart. 

“And I, also, Monsieur Lacheneur,” 
she said, “desire to press your hand. I 
wish to tell you that I esteem you as 
much as I despise the ingrates v r ho have 
sought to humiliate you, when they 
should have fallen at your feet. They 
are heartless monsters, the like of whom 
certainly cannot be found upon the 
earth.” 

“Alas !” sighed the baron, “the allies 
have brought back others who, like these 
men, think the world created exclusively 
for their benefit.” 

“And these people wish to be our mas- 
ters,” growled Lacheneur. 

Bjr some strange fatality no one chanced 
to hear the remark, made by M. Lache- 
neur. Had they overheard and ques- 
tioned him, he would probably have dis- 
closed some of the projects which were 
as yet in embryo in his own mind ; and 
in that case what disastrous consequences 
might have been averted. 

M. d’Escorval had regained his usual 
coolness. 

“Now, my dear friend,” he inquired, 
“what course do you propose to pursue 
with these members of the Sairmeuse 
family?” 

“They will hear nothing more from me 
— for some time, at least.” 

“What! Shall you not claim the ten 
thousand francs that they owe you?” 

“I shall ask them for nothing.” 

“You will be compelled to do so. 
Since you have alluded to the legacy, 
your own honor will demand that you in- 
insist upon its payment by all legal 
methods. There are still judges in 
Franc.” 

M. Lacheneur shook his head. 

“The judges will not accord me the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


137 


justice I desire. I chall not apply to 
them.” 

“But ” 

“No, monsieur, no. I wish to have 
nothing to do with these men. I shall 
not even go to the chateau to remove 
my clothing nor that of my daughter. 
If they send it to us — very well. If it 
pleases them to keep it so much the bet- 
ter. The more shameful, infamous and 
odious their conduct appears, the better 
I shall be satisfied.” 

The baron made no reply ; but his wife 
spoke, believing she had a sure means of 
conqering this incomprehensible obsti- 
nacy. • 

“I should understand your determina- 
tion if you were alone in the world,” 
said she, ‘■‘but you have children.” 

“My son is eighteen, madame; he 
possesses good health and an excellent 
education. He can make his own w r ay in 
Paris, if he chooses to remain there.” 

“But your daughter?” 

“Marie- Anne w ill remain wdth me.” 

M. d'Escorval thought it his duty to 
interfere. 

“Take care, my dear friend, that your 
grief does not overthrow your reason,” 
said he. “Reflect? What will become of 
you — your daughter and yourself?” 

The wretched man smiled sadly. 

“Oh,” he replied, “we are not as desti- 
tute as I said. I exaggerated our mis- 
fortune. We are still landed proprie- 
tors. Last year an old cousin, whom I 
could never induce to come and live at 
Sairmeuse, died, bequeathing all her pro- 
perty to Marie-Anne. This property 
consisted of a poor little cottage near 
the Reche, with a little garden and a few 
acres of sterile land. In compliance with 
my daughter’s entreaties, I repaired the 
cottage, and sent there a few articles of 
furniture — a table, some chairs, and a 
couple of beds. My daughter designed 
it as a home for old Father Guvat and 
his wife. And I, surrounded by wealth 
and luxury, said to myself : ‘How com- 
fortable those two old people will be 
there. They will live as snug as a bug in 
a rug!’ Well, what I thought so com- 
fortable for others, will be good enough 
for me. I will raise vegetables, and 
Marie-Anne shall sell them. 

Was he speaking seriously ? 

Maurice must have supposed so, for he 
sprang forward. 

“This shall not be, Monsieur Lache- 
neur!” he exclaimed. 

“Oh ” 

“No, this shall not be, for I love 
Marie-Anne, and I ask you to give her to 
me for my wife.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

Maurice and Marie-Anne had loved 
each other for many years. 

As children, they had played together 
in the magnificent grounds surrounding 
the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and in the 
park at Escorval. 

Together they chased the brilliant but- 
terflies, searched for pebbles on the 
banks of the river, or rolled in the hay 
while their mothers sauntered through 
the meadows bordering the Oiselle. 

For their mothers were friends. 

Mine. Lacheneur had been reared like 
other poor peasant girls; that is too say, 
on the day of her marriage it was only 
with great difticulty she succeeded iu in- 
scribing her name upon the register. 

But from the example of her husband 
she had learned that prosperity, as well 
as noblesse, entails certain obligations 
upon one, and with rare courage, crow ned 
with still rarer success, she had under- 
taken to acquire an education in keeping 
with her fortune and her new rank. 

And the baroness had made no effort to 
resist the sympathy that attracted her to 
this meritorious young w r oman, in whom 
she had discerned a really superior mind 
and a truly refined nature. 

When Mtne. Lacheneur died, Mine. 
d’Escorval mourned for her as she would 
have mourned for a favorite sister. 

From that moment Maurice’s attach- 
ment assumed a more serious character. 

Educated in a Parisian lyceum, his 
teachers sometimes had occasion to com- 
plain of his want of application. 

“If your professors are not satisfied 
with you,” said his mother, “you shall 
not accompany me to Escorval on the 
coming of your vacation, and you will 
not sec your little friend.” 

And this simple threat was always suf- 
ficient to make the school-boy resume his 
studies with redoubled diligence. 

So each year, as it passed, strengthened 
the grande passion which preserved Mau- 
rice from the restlessness and the errors 
of adolescence. 

The two children were equally timid 
and artless, and equally infatuated with 
each other. 

Long walks in the twilight under the 
eyes of their parents, a glance that re- 
vealed their delight at meeting each 
other, flowers exchanged between them 
— which were religiously preserved — such 
were their simple pleasures. 

But that magical and sublime word : 
love — so sweet to utter, and so sweet to 
hear — had never once dropped from their 
lips. 

The audacity of Maurice had never 
gone beyond a furtive pressure of the 
hand. 

The parents could not be ignorant of 
this mutual affection; and if they pre- 


133 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


tended to shut their eyes, it was only 
because it did not displease them nor 
disturb their plans. 

M. and Mine. d’Escorval saw no objec- 
tion to their son’s marriage with a young 
girl whose nobility of character they ap- 
preciated, and who was as beautiful as 
she was good. That she was the richest 
heiress in all the country round about 
was naturally no objection. 

So far as M. Lacheneur was concerned, 
he was delighted at the prospect of a 
marriage which would ally him, a former 
ploughboy, with an old family whose 
head was universally respected. 

So, although no direct allusion to the 
subject had ever escaped the lips of the 
baron or of M. Lacheneur, there was a 
tacit agreement between the two fami- 
lies. 

Yes, the marriage was considered a 
foregone conclusion. 

And yet this impetuous and unexpected 
declaration by Maurice struck every one 
dumb. 

In spite of his agitation, the young 
man perceived the effect produced by his 
words, and frightened by his own bold- 
ness, he turned and looked questioningly 
at his father. 

The baron’s face was grave, even sad ; 
but his attitude expressed no displeasure. 

This gave renewed courage to the 
anxious lover. 

“You will excuse me, monsieur,” he 
said, addressing Lacheneur, “for present- 
ing my request in such a manner, -and at 
such a time. But surely, when fate 
glowers ominously upon you, that is the 
time when your friends should declare 
themselves — and deem themselves fortu- 
nate if their devotion can make you 
forget the infamous treatment to which 
you have been subjected.” 

As he spoke, he was watching Marie- 
Anne. 

Blushing and embarrassed, she turned 
away her head, perhaps to conceal the 
tears which inundated her face — tears of 
joy and of gratitude. 

The love of the man she adored came 
forth victorious from a test which it 
would not be prudent for many heiresses 
to impose. 

Now she could truly say that she knew 
Maurice’s heart. 

He, however, continued : 

“I have not consulted my father, sir ; 
but I know his affection for me and his 
esteem for you. When the happiness of 
my life is at stake, he will not oppose me. 
He, who married my dear mother without 
a dowry, must understand my feelings.” 

He was silent, awaiting the verdict. 

“I approve your course, my son,” said 
M. d’Escorval, deeply affected; “you 
have conducted yourself like an honora- 
ble man. Certainly you are very young 


to become the head of a family ; but, as 
you say, circumstances demand it.” 

He turned to M. Lacheneur, and added : 

“My dear friend, I, in my son’s behalf, 
ask the hand of your daughter in- mar- 
riage.” 

Maurice had not expected so little op- 
position. 

In his delight he was almost tempted 
to bless the hateful Duke de Sairmeuse, 
to whom he would owe his approaching 
happiness. 

He sprang towards his father, and 
seizing his hands, he raised them to his 
lips, faltering : 

“Thanks! — you are so good! I love 
you ! Oh, how happy I am !” 

Alas ! the poor boy was in too much 
haste to rejoice. 

A gleam of pride flashed in M. Lach- 
eneur’s eyes ; but his face soon resumed 
its gloomy expression. 

“Believe me, Monsieur le Baron, I am 
deeply touched by your grandeur of soul 
— yes, deeply touched. You wish to 
make me forget my humiliation ; but, foi 
this very reason, i should be the most 
contemptible of men if I did not refuse 
the great honor you desire to confer 
upon my daughter.” 

“What!” exclaimed the baron, in utter 
astonishment; “you refuse?” 

“I am compelled to do so.” 

Thunderstruck at first, Maurice after- 
wards renewed the attack with an energy 
which no one had ever suspected in his 
character before. 

“Do you, then, wish to ruin my life, 
monsieur?” he exclaimed — “to ruin our 
life; for if I love Marie- Anne, she also 
loves me.” 

It was easy to see that he spoke the 
truth. The unhappy girl, crimson with 
happy blushes the moment before, had 
suddenly become whiter than marble as 
she looked imploringly at her father. 

“It cannot be,” repeated M. Lacheneur; 
“and the day will come when you will 
bless the decision I make known at this 
moment.” 

Alarmed by her son’s evident agony, 
Mine. d’Escorval interposed : 

“You must have reasons for this re- 
fusal.” 

“None that I can disclose, madame. 
But never while I live shall my daughter 
be your son’s wife?” 

“Ah! it will kill my child!” exclaimed 
the baroness. 

M. Lacheneur shook his head. 

“M. Maurice,” said he, “is young; 
he will console himself — he will forget.” 

“Never !” interrupted the unhappy lover 
— “never !” 

“And your daughter?” inquired the 
baroness. 

Ah! this was the weak spot in his 
armor ; the instinct of a mother was not 
mistaken. M. Lacheneur hesitated a mo- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


139 


ment ; but he finally conquered the weak- 
ness that had threatened to master him. 

“Marie- Anne,” he replied, slowly, 
“knows her duty too well not to obey 
when I command. When I tell her the 
motive that governs my conduct, she will 
become resigned : and if she suffers, she 
will know how to conceal her sufferings.” 

He paused suddenly. They heard in 
the distance a firing of musketry, the dis- 
charge of rifles, whose sharp ring over- 
powered even the sullen roar of cannon. 

Every face grew pale. Circumstances 
imparted to these sounds an ominous sig- 
nificance. 

With the same anguish clutching the 
hearts of both, M. d’Escorval and Lach- 
eneur sprang out upon the terrace. 

But all was still again. Extended as 
was the horizon, the eye could discern 
nothing unusual. The sky was blue ; not 
a particle of smoke hung over the trees. 

“It is the enemy,” muttered M. Lach- 
eneur, in a tone which told how gladly 
he would have shouldered his gun and 
with five hundred others, marched against 
the united allies. 

He paused. The explosions were re- 
peated with still greater violence, and for 
a period of five minutes succeeded each 
other without cessation. 

M. d’Escorval listened with knitted 
brows. 

“That is not the fire of an engage- 
ment,” he murmured. 

To remain long in such a state of un- 
certainty was out of the question. 

“If you will permit me, father,” ven- 
tured Maurice, “I will go and' ascer- 
tain ” 

“Go,” replied the baron quietly; but if 
it is anything, which I doubt, do not ex- 
pose yourself to danger, return.” 

“Oh! be prudent!” insisted Mme. 
d’Escorval, who already saw her son 
exposed to the most frightful peril. 

“Be prudent!” entreated Marie-Anne, 
who alone understood what attractions 
danger might have for a despairing and 
unhappy man. 

These cautions were unnecessary. As 
Maurice was rushing to the door, his 
father stopped him. 

“Wait,” said he: “here is some one 
who can probably give us information.” 

A man had just appeared around a 
turn of the road leading to Sairmeuse. 

He was advancing bare-headed in the 
middle of the dusty road, with hurried 
strides, and occasionally brandishing his 
stick, as if threatening an enemy visible 
to himself alone. 

Soon they were able to distinguish his 
features. 

“It is Chanlouineau !” exclaimed M. 
Lacheneur. 

“The owner of the vineyards on the 
Bordcrie?” 

“The same! The handsomest young 


farmer in the country, and the best also. 
Ah ! he has good blood in his veins ; we 
may well be proud of him.” 

“Ask him to stop,” said M. d’Escorval. 

Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade 
and forming a trumpet out of his two 
hands, he called : 

“Oh ! — Chanlouineau !” 

The robust young farmer raised his 
head. 

“Come up,” shouted Lacheneur; “the 
baron wishes to speak with you.” 

Chanlouineau responded by a gesture 
of assent. They saw him enter the gate, 
cross the garden, and at last appear at 
the door of the drawing-room. 

His features were distorted with fury, 
his disordered clothing gave evidence of 
a serious conflict. His cravat was gone, 
and torn shirt-collar revealed his muscu- 
lar throat. 

“Where is this fighting?” demanded 
Lacheneur eagerly ; “and with whom?” 
Chanlouineau gave a nervous laugh which 
resembled a roar of rage. 

“They are not fighting,” he replied; 
they are amusing themselves. This firing 
which you hear is in honor of M. le Due 
de Sairmeuse.” 

“Impossible !” 

“I know it very well — and yet, what I 
have told you is the truth. It is the work 
of that miserable wretch and thief, 
Chupin. Ah, canaille ! H I ever find 
him within reach of my arm he will 
never steal again.” 

M. Lacheneur was confounded. 

“Tell us what has happened,” he said, 
excitedly. 

“Oh, it is as clear as daylight. When 
the duke arrived at Sairmeuse, Chupin, 
the old scoundrel, with his two * rascally 
boys, and that old hag, his wife, ran after 
the carriage like beggars after a diligence, 
crying, ‘Vive Monsieur le Due!’ The 
duke was enchanted, for he doubtless ex- 
pected a volley of stones, and he placed 
a six franc piece in the hand of each of 
the wretches. This money gave Chupin 
an appetite for more, so he took it into 
his head to give this old noble a reception 
like that which was given to the Em- 
peror. Having learned through Bibiaine, 
whose tongue is as long as a viper’s, all 
that had passed at the presbytery, be- 
tween you, Monsieur Lacheneur, and the 
duke, he came and proclaimed it in the 
market-place. When they heard it, all 
who had purchased national lands were 
frightened. Chupin had counted on this, 
and soon he began telling the poor fools 
that they must burn powder under the 
duke's noseif they wished him to confirm 
their titles to their property.” 

“And did they believe him?’ . 

“Implicitly. It did not take them long 
to make their preparations. They went 
to the town hall and took the firemen’s 
rifles, and the guns used for firing a sa- 


140 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


lute on fete days ; the mayor gave them 
the powder, and you heard ” 

“When I left Sairmeuse there was more 
than two hundred idiots before the pres- 
bytery, shouting; 

“ Vive Monseigneur 1 Vive le Due de 
Sairmeuse !” 

It was as D'Escorval had thought. 

“The same pitiful farce that was played 
in Paris, only on a smaller scale,” he 
murmured. “Avarice and human cow- 
ardice are the same the world over !” 

Meanwhile, Chanlouineau was going on 
with his recital. 

“To make the fete complete, the devil 
must have warned all the nobility in the 
neighborhood, for they all came running. 
They say that M. de Sairmeuse is a favor- 
ite with the king, and that he can get 
anything he wishes. So you can imagine 
how they all greeted him ! I am only a 
poor peasant, but never would I lie down 
in the dust before any man as these old 
nobles who are so haughty with us, did 
before the duke. They kissed his hands, 
and he allowed them to do it. He walked 
about the square with the Marquis de 
Courtornieu ” 

“And his son?” interrupted Maurice. 

“The Marquis Martial, is it not? He is 
also walking before the church with Mile. 
Blanche de Courtornieu upon his arm. 
Ah ! I do not understand how people can 
call her pretty — a little bit of a thing, so 
blonde that, one might suppose her hair 
was gray. Ah ! how those two laughed 
and made fun of the peasants. They say 
they are going to marry each other. And 
even this evening there is to be a banquet 
at the Chateau de Courtornieu in honor of 
the duke.” 

He had told all he knew. He paused. 

“You have forgotten only one thing,” 
said M. Lacheneur; “that is, to tell us 
how your clothing happened to be torn, 
as if you had been fighting.” 

The young farmer hesitated for a mo- 
ment, then replied, somewhat brusquely : 

“I can tell you, all the same. While 
Chupin was preaching, I also preached, 
but not in the same strain. The scoundrel 
reported me. So, in crossing the square, 
the duke paused before me and remarked : 
‘So you are an evil disposed person?’ I 
said no, but that I knew my rights. Then 
he took me by the coat and shook me, 
and told me that he would cure me, and 
that he would take possession of his vine- 
yard again. Saint Dieu! When I felt 
the old rascal's hand upon me my blood 
boiled. I pinioned him. Fortunately 
six or seven men fell upon me, and com- 
pelled me to let him go. But he had bet- 
ter make up his mind not to come prowl- 
ipg around my vineyard !” 

He clenched his hands, his eyes blazed 
ominously, his whole person breathed an 
intense desire for vengeance. 

And M. d’ Escorval was silent, fearing 


to aggravate this hatred, so imprudently 
kindled, and whose explosion, he be- 
lieved, would be terrible. 

M. Lacheneur had risen from his chair. 

“I must go and take possession of my 
cottage,” he remarked to Chanlouineau; 
“you will accompany me ; I have a propo- 
sition to make to you.” 

M. and Mme. d'Escorval endeavored to 
detain him, but he would not allow him- 
self to be persuaded, and he departed 
with his daughter. 

But Maurice did not despair; Marie- 
Anne had promised to meet him the fol- 
lowing day in the pine grove near the 
Reche. 


CHAPTER L. 

Tiie demonstrations which had greeted 
the Duke de Sairmeuse had been correctly 
reported by Chanlouineau. 

Chupin had found the secret of kind- 
ling to a white heat the enthusiasm of 
the cold and calculating peasants who 
were his neighbors. 

He was a dangerous rascal, the old rob- 
ber, shrewd and cautious ; bold, as those 
who possess nothing can afford to be ; as 
patient as a savage ; in short, one of the 
most consummate scoundrels that ever 
existed. 

The peasants feared him, and yet they 
had no conception of his real character. 

All his resources of mind had, until 
now, been expended in evading the preci- 
pice of the rural code. 

To save himself from falling into the 
hands of the gendarmes , and to steal a 
few sacks of wheat, he had expended 
treasures of intrigue which would have 
made the fortunes of twenty diplomates. 

Circumstances, as he always said, had 
been against him. 

So he desperately caught at the first 
and only opportunity worthy of his 
talent, which had ever presented itself. 

Of course, the wily rustic had said 
nothing of the true circumstances which 
attended the restoration of Sairmeuse to 
its former owner. 

From him, the peasants learned only 
the bare fact ; and the news spread rapid- 
ly from group to group. 

“M. Lacheneur has given up Sair- 
meuse,” said he. “Chateau, forests, 
vineyards, fields — he surrenders every- 
thing.” 

This was enough, and more than 
enough to terrify every land-owner in the 
village. 

If Lacheneur, this man who was so 
powerful in their eyes, considered the 
danger so threatening that he deemed it 
necessary or advisable to make a com- 
plete surrender, what was to become of 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


141 


them — poor devils — without aid, without 
counsel, without defense? 

They were told that the government 
was about to betray their interests ; that 
a decree was in process of preparation 
which would render their title-deeds 
worthless. They could see no hope of 
salvation, except through the duke’s gen- 
erosity — that generosity which Chupin 
painted with the glowing colors of the 
rainbow. 

When one is not strong enough to 
weather the gale, one must bow like the 
reed before it and rise again after the 
storm has passed ; such was their con- 
clusion. 

And they bowed. And their apparent 
enthusiasm was all the more vociferous 
on account of the rage and fear that filled 
their hearts. 

A close observer would have detected 
an under-current of anger and menace in 
their shouts. 

Each man also said to himself : 

‘‘What do we risk by crying, “Vive le 
due?” Nothing, absolutely nothing. If 
he is contented with that as a compensa- 
tion for his lost property — good ! If he 
is not content, we shall have time after- 
ward to adopt other measures.” 

So they shouted themselves hoarse. 

And while the duke was sipping his 
coffee in the little drawing-room of the 
presbytery, he expressed his lively sat- 
isfaction at the scene without. 

He, this grand seigneur of times gone 
by; this man of absurd prejudices and 
obstinate illusions; the unconquerable, 
and the incorrigible — he took these ac- 
clamations, “truly spurious coin,” as 
Chateaubriand says, for ready money. 

“How you have deceived me, sure,” he 
was saying to Abbe Midon; “How could 
you declare that your people were un- 
favorably disposed toward us? One is 
compelled to believe that these evil in- 
tentions exist only in your own mind and 
in your own heart.” 

Abbe Midon was silent. What could 
he reply? 

He could not understand this sudden 
revolution in public opinion — this abrupt 
change from gloom and discontent to ex- 
cessive gayety. 

There is somebody at the bottom of all 
this, he thought. 

It was not long before it became ap- 
parent who that somebody was. 

Emboldened by his success . without, 
Chupin ventured to present himself at 
the presbytery. 

He entered the drawing-room with his 
back rounded into a circle, scraping and 
cringing, an obsequious smile upon his 
lips. 

And through the half-open door one 
could discern, in the shadows of the pas- 
sage, the far from reassuring faces of his 
two sons. 


He came as an ambassador, he declared, 
after an interminable litany of protesta- 
tions — he came to implore “monseig- 
neur” to show himself upon the public 
square. 

“Ah, well — yes,” exclaimed the duke, 
rising; “yes, I will yield to the wishes 
of these good people. Follow me, mar- 
quis !” 

As he appeared at the door of the pres- 
bytery, a loud shout rent the air; the 
rifles were discharged, the guns belched 
forth their smoke and fire. Never had 
Sairmeuse heard such a salvo of artillery. 
Three windows in the Beef Couronne 
were shattered. 

A veritable grand seigneur , the Duke de 
Sairmeuse knew how to preserve an ap- 
pearance of haughtiness and indifference. 
Any display of emotion was, in his 
opinion, vulgar ; but, in reality, he was 
delighted, charmed. 

So delighted that he desired to reward 
his welcomers. 

A glance over the deeds handed him by 
Lacheneur, had shown him that Sair- 
meuse had been restored to him intact. 

The portions of the immense domain 
which had been detached and sold separ- 
ately, were of relatively minor import- 
ance. 

The duke thought it would be politic, 
and, at the same time, inexpensive, to 
abandon all claim to these few acres, 
which were now shared by forty or fifty 
peasants. 

“My friends,” he exclaimed, in a loud 
voice, “I renounce, for myself and for 
my descendants, all claim to the lands 
belonging to my house which you have 
purchased. They are yours — I give them 
to you I” 

By this absurd pretense of a gift, M. 
de Sairmeuse thought to add the finishing 
touch to his popularity. A great mis- 
take ! It simply assured the popularity 
of Chupin, the organizer of the farce. 

And while the duke was promenading 
through the crowd with a proud and self- 
satisfied air, the peasants were secretly 
laughing and jeering at him. 

And if they promptly took sides with 
him against Chanlouineau, it. was only 
because his gift was still fresh in their 
minds ; except for this 

But the duke had not time to think 
much about this encounter, which pro- 
duced a vivid impression upon liis son. 

One of his former companions in exile, 
the Marquis de Courtornieu, whom he 
had informed of his arrival, hastened to 
welcome him, accompanied by his daugh- 
ter, Mademoiselle Blanche. 

Martial could do no less thnn offer his 
arm to the daughter of his father’s friend ; 
and they took a leisurely promenade in 
the shade of the lofty trees, while the 
duke renewed his acquaintance with all 
the nobility of the neighborhood. 


142 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


There was not a single nobleman who 
did not hasten to press the hand of the 
Duke de Sairmeuse. First, he possessed, 
it was said, a property of more than 
twenty millions in England. Then, he 
was the friend of the king, and each 
neighbor had some favor to ask for him- 
self, for his relatives, or for his friends. 

Poor king ! He should have had entire 
France to divide like a cake between 
these cormorants, whose voracious ap- 
petites it was impossible to satisfy. 

That evening, after a grand banquet at 
the Chateau de Courtornieu, the duke 
slept in the Chateau de Sairmeuse, in the 
room which had been occupied by Lach- 
eneur, “like Louis XVIII,” he laughing- 
ly said, “in the chamber of Bonaparte.” 

He was gay, chatty, and full of confi- 
dence in the future. 

“Ah! it is good to be in one’s own 
house!” he remarked to his son again 
and again. 

But Martial responded only mechani- 
cally. His mind was occupied with 
thoughts of two women who had made a 
profound impression upon his by no 
means susceptible heart that day. He 
was thinking of those two young girls, 
so utterly unlike. 

Blanche de Courtornieu — Marie-Anne 
Lacheneur. 


CHAPTER LI. , 

Only those who, in the bright spring- 
time of life, have loved, have been loved 
in return, and have suddenly seen an im- 
passable gulf open between them and 
happiness, can realize Maurice d'Escor- 
val’s disappointment. 

. All the dreams of his life, all his future 
plans, were based upon his love for Marie- 
Anne. 

If this love failed him, the enchanted 
castle which hope had erected, would 
crumble and fall, burying him in the 
ruins. 

Without Marie-Anne he saw neither aim 
nor motive in his existence. Still he did 
not suffer himself to be deluded by false 
hopes. Although at first, his appointed 
meeting with Marie-Anne on the follow- 
ing day seemed salvation itself, on reflec- 
tion, he was forced to admit that this in- 
terview would change nothing, since 
everything depended upon the will of an- 
other party — the will of M. Lacheneur. 

The remainder of the day he passed in 
mournful silence. The dinner hour came ; 
he took his seat at the table, but it was 
impossible for him to sw r allow a morsel, 
and he soon requested his parents’ per- 
mission to withdraw. 

M. d'Escorval and the baroness ex- 
changed a sorrowful glance, but did not 
allow themselves to offer any comment. 


J They respected his grief. They knew 
that his was one of those sorrows which 
are only aggravated by any attempt at 
consolation. 

“Poor Maurice!” murmured Madame 
d’Escorval, as soon as her son had left 
the room. And, as her husband made no 
reply: “Perhaps,” she added, hesitating- 
ly, “perhaps it will not be prudent for 
us to leave him too entirely to the dic- 
tates of his despair.” 

The baron shuddered. He divined only 
too well, the terrible apprehensions of his 
wife. 

“We have nothing to fear,” he replied, 
quickly; “I heard Marie-Anne promise 
to meet Maurice to-morrow in the grove 
on the Reche.” 

The anxious mother breathed more 
freety. Her blood had frozen with hor- 
ror at the thought that her son might, 
perhaps, be contemplating suicide; but 
she w r as a mother, and her husband’s as- 
surances did not satisfy her. 

She hastily ascended the stairs leading 
to her son’s room, softly opened the door, 
and looked in. He was so engrossed in 
his gloomy reverie that he had heard 
nothing, and did not even suspect the 
presence of the anxious mother who was 
watching over him. 

He was sitting at the -window, his el- 
bows resting upon the sill, his head sup- 
ported by his hands, looking out into the 
night. 

There was no moon, but the night was 
clear, and over beyond the light fog that 
indicated the course of the Oiselle, one 
could discern the imposing mass of the 
Chateau de Sairmeuse, with its towers 
and fanciful turrets. 

More than once he had sat thus silently 
gazing at this chateau, which sheltered 
what was dearest and most precious in 
all the world to him. 

From, his windows he could see those 
of the room occupied by Marie-Anne; 
and his heart always quickened its throb- 
ing when he saw them illuminated. 

“She is there,” he thought, “in her 
virgin chamber. She is kneeling to say 
her prayers. She murmurs my name 
after that of her father, imploring God’s 
blessing upon us both.” 

But this evening he was not waiting 
for a light to gleam through the panes of 
that dear window. 

Marie-Anne was no longer at Sair- 
meuse — she had been driven away. 

Where was she now? She. accustomed 
to all the luxury that wealth could pro- 
cure, no longer had any home except a 
poor thatch covered hovel, whose walls 
were not even whitewashed, whose only 
floor was the earth itself, dusty as the 
public highway in summer, frozen or 
muddy in winter. 

She was reduced to the necessity of oc- 
cupying herself the humble abode, she, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


143 


in her charitable heart, had intended as 
an asylum for one of her pensioners. 

What was she doing now? Doubtless 
she was weeping. 

At this thought, poor Maurice was 
heart-broken. 

What was his surprise, a little after 
midnight, to see the chateau brilliantly 
illuminated. 

The duke and his son had repaired to 
the chateau after the banquet given by 
the Marquis de Courtornieu was over; 
and before going to bed, they made a 
tour of inspection through this magnifi- 
cent abode in which their ancestors had 
lived. They, therefore, might be said to 
have taken possession of the mansion 
whose threshold M. de Sairmeuse had not 
crossed for twenty-two years, and which 
Martial had never seen. 

Maurice saw the lights leap from story 
to story, from casement to casement, un- 
til at last even the windows of Marie- 
Anne’s room were illuminated. 

At this sight, the unhappy youth could 
not restrain a cry of rage. 

These men, these strangers, dared en- 
ter this virgin bower which he, even in 
thought, scarcely dared to penetrate. 

They trampled carelessly over the 
delicate carpet with their heavy boots. 
Maurice trembled in thinking of the lib- 
erties which they, in their insolent famil- 
iarity, might venture upon. He fancied 
he could see them examining and hand- 
ling the thousand petty trifles with which 
young girls love to surround themselves, 
they opened the presses, perhaps they 
were reading an unfinished letter lying 
upon her writing desk. 

Never until this evening had Martial 
supposed he could hate another as he 
hated these men. 

At last, in despair, he threw himself 
upon his bed, and passed the remainder 
of the night in thinking over what he 
should say to Marie-Anne on the morrow, 
and in seeking some issue from this inex- 
tricable labyrinth. 

He rose before daybreak and wandered 
about the park like a soul in distress, 
fearing, yet longing for the hour that 
would decide his fate. Mine. d'Escorval 
was obliged to exert all her authority to 
make him take some nourishment. He 
had quite forgotten that he had passed 
twenty-four hours without eating. 

When eleven o'clock sounded he left 
the house. 

The lands of the Reche are situated on 
the other side of the Oiselle. Maurice, 
to reach his destination, was obliged to 
cross the river at a ferry only a short 
distance from his home. When he reached 
the river-bank he found six or seven 
peasants who were waiting to cross. 

These people did not observe Maurice. 
They were talking earnestly, and he lis- 
tened. 


“It is certainly true,*’ said one of the 
men. “I heard it from Chanlouineau 
himself only last evening. He was wild 
with delight. ‘I invite you all to the 
wedding !’ he cried. ‘I am betrothed to 
M. Lacheneur’s daughter; the affair is 
decided.’ ” 

This astounding news positively stunned 
Maurice. He was actually unable to 
think or to move. 

“ ‘Besides, he has been in love with 
her for a long time. Every one knows 
that. One had only to see his eyes when 
he met her — coals of fire were nothing to 
them. But Avhile her father was so rich, 
he did not dare to speak. Now that the 
old man has met with these reverses, he 
ventures to offer himself, and is ac- 
cepted.” 

“An unfortunate thing for him,” re- 
marked a little old man. 

“Why so?” 

“If M. Lacheneur is ruined, as they 
say ” 

The others laughed heartily. 

“Ruined — M. Lacheneur!” they ex- 
claimed in chorus. “How absurd! He 
is richer than all of us together. Do you 
suppose that he has been stupid enough 
not to have laid anything aside during 
all these years? He has put this money 
not in grounds, as he pretends, but some- 
where else.” 

“You are saying what is untrue!” in- 
terrupted Maurice, indignantly. “ M. 
Lacheneur left Sairmeuse as poor as he 
entered it.” 

On recognizing M. d’Escorval’s son, 
the peasants became extremely cautious. 
He questioned them, but could obtain 
only vague and unsatisfactory answers. 
A peasant, when interrogated, will never 
give a response which he thinks will be 
displeasing to his questioner; he is afraid 
of compromising himself. 

The news he had heard, however, 
caused Maurice to hasten on still more 
rapidly after crossing the Oiselle. 

‘‘Marie-Anne marry Chanlouineau!” 
he repeated; “it is impossible! it is im- 
possible I” 


CHAPTER LII. 

The Reche, literally translated the 
“Waste,” where Marie-Anne had prom- 
ised to meet Maurice, owed its name to 
the rebellious and sterile character of the 
soil. 

Nature seemed to have laid her curse 
upon it. Nothing would grow there. 
The ground was covered with stones, 
and the sandy soil defied all attempts to 
enrich it. 

A few stunted oaks rose here and there 
above the thorns and broom-plant. 

But on the lowlands of the Reche is a 


144 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


flourishing grove. The firs are straight 
and strong, for the floods of winter have 
deposited in some of the clifts of the 
rock sufficient soil to sustain them and 
the wild clematis and honeysuckle that 
cling to their branches. 

On reaching this grove, Maurice con- 
sulted his watch. It marked the hour of 
mid-day. He had supposed that he was 
late, but he was more than an hour in 
advance of the appointed time. 

He seated himself upon a high rock, 
from which he could survey the entire 
Reche, and waited. 

The day was magnificent; the air in- 
tensely hot. The rays of the August 
sun fell with scorching violence upon the 
sandy soil, and withered the few plants 
which had sprung up since the last rain. 

The stillness was profound, almost ter- 
rible. Not a sound broke the s lence, 
not even the buzzing of an insect, nor a 
whisper of breeze in the trees. All na- 
ture seemed sleeping. And on no side 
was there anything to remind one of life, 
motion, or mankind. 

This repose of nature, which contrasted 
so vividly with the tumult raging in his 
own heart, exerted a beneficial effect 
upon Maurice. These few moments of 
solitude afforded him an opportunity to 
regain his composure, to collect his 
thoughts scattered by the storm of pas- 
sion which had swept over his soul, as 
leaves are scattered by the fierce Novem- 
ber gale. 

With sorrow comes experience, and 
that cruel knowledge of life which teaches 
one to guard one’s self against one’s 
hopes. 

It was not until he heard the conversa- 
tion of these peasants that Maurice fully 
realized the horror of Laeheneur’s posi- 
tion. Suddenly precipitated from the 
social eminence which he had attained, 
he found, in the valley of humiliations 
into which he was cast, only hatred, dis- 
trust, and scorn. Both factions despised 
and denied him. Traitor, cried one; 
thief, cried the another. He no longer 
held any social status. He was the fallen 
man, the man who had been, and who was 
no more. 

Was not the excessive misery of such 
a position a sufficent explanation of the 
strangest and wildest resolutions ? 

This thought made Maurice tremble. 
Connecting the stories of the peasants 
with the words addressed to Chanloui- 
neau at Escorval, by M. Lacheneur, on 
the preceding evening, he arrived at the 
conclusion that this report of Marie- 
Anne’s approaching marriage to the 
young farmer was not so improbable as 
he had at first supposed. 

But why should M. Lacheneur give 
his daughter to an uncultured peasant? 
From mercenary motives? Certainly 
not, since he had just refused an alliance 


of which he had been proud in his days 
of prosperity. Could it be in order to 
satisfy his wounded pride, then? Per- 
haps he did not wish it to be said that he 
owed anything to a son-in-law. 

Maurice was exhausting all his inge- 
nuity and penetration in endeavoring to 
solve this mystery, when at last, on a 
foot-path which crosses the waste, a 
woman appeared — Marie-Anne. 

He rose, but fearing observation, did 
not venture to leave the shelter of the 
grove. 

Marie-Anne must have felt a similar 
fear, for she hurried on, casting anxious 
glances on every side as she ran. Mau- 
rice remarked, not without surprise, that 
she was bare-headed, and that she had 
neither shawl nor scarf about her should- 
ers. 

As she reached the edge of the wood, 
he sprang towards her, and catching her 
hand raised it to his lips. 

But this hand which she had so often 
yielded to him, was now gently with- 
drawn with so sad a gesture that he 
could not help feeling there was no hope. 

“I came, Maurice,” she began, ‘‘be- 
cause I could not endure the thought of 
your anxiety. By doing so I have be- 
trayed my father's confidence — he was 
obliged to leave home. I hastened here. 
And yet I promised him, only two hours 
ago, that I would never see you again. 
You hear me — never !” 

She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was 
appalled by the firmness of her accent. 

Had he been less agitated, he would 
have seen what a terrible effort this sem- 
blance of calmness cost the young girl. 
He would have understood it from her 
pallor, from the contraction of her lips, 
from the redness of the eyelids which 
she had vainly bathed with fresh water, 
and which betrayed the tears that had 
fallen during the night. 

“If I have come,' 5 she cont'nued, “it is 
only to tell you that, for your own sake, 
as well as for mine, there must not re- 
main in the secret recesses of your heart, 
even the slightest shadow of a hope. 
All is over; we are separated forever! 
Only weak natures revolt against a desti- 
ny which they cannot alter. Let us ac- 
cept our fate uncomplainingly. I wished 
to see you once more, and to say this : 
Have courage, Maurice. Go away — leave 
Escorval — forget me !” 

“Forget you, Marie-Anne !” exclaimed 
the wretched young man, “forget you!” 

His eyes met hers, and in a husky 
voice he added : 

“Will you then forget me?” 

“I am a woman, Maurice ” 

But he interrupted her : 

“Ah ! I did not expect this,” he said, 
despondently. “Poor fool that I was! 
I believed that you would find a way to 
touch your father's heart. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


145 


She blushed slightly, hesitated, and 
said : 

“I have thrown myself at my father’s 
feet ; he repulsed me.” 

Maurice was thunderstruck, but recov- 
ering himself : 

‘•It was because you did not know how 
to speak to him !” he exc! aimed in a pas- 
sion of fury; “but I shall know — I will 
present such arguments that he will be 
forced to yield. What right has he to 
ruin my happiness with his caprices? I 
love you — by right of this love, you are 
mine — mine rather than his ! I will 
make him understand this, you shall see. 
Where is he? Where can I find him?” 

Already he was starting to go, he 
knew not where, Marie-Anne caught 
him by the arm. * 

“Remain,” she commanded, “remain! 
So you have failed to understand me, 
Maurice. Ah, well ! you must know the 
truth. I am acquainted now with the 
reasons of my father’s refusal; and 
though his decision should cost me my 
life, I approve it. Do not go to find my 
father. If moved by your prayers, he 
gave his consent, I should have the cour- 
age to refuse mine !” 

Maurice was so beside himself that 
this reply did not enlighten him. Crazed 
with anger and despair, and with no re- 
morse for the insult he addressed to this 
woman whom he loved so deeply, he ex- 
claimed : 

“Is it for Chanlouineau. then, that you 
are reserving your consent? He believes 
so since he goes about everywhere say- 
ing that you will soon be his wife.” 

Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife 
had entered her very heart; and yet 
there was more sorrow than anger in the 
glance she cast upon Maurice. 

“Must I stoop so low as to defend my- 
self from such an imputation?” she 
asked sadly. “Must I declare that if 
even I suspect such an arrangement be- 
tween Chanlouineau and my father, I 
have not been consulted? Must I tell 
you that there are some sacrifices which 
are beyond the strength of poor human 
nature? Understand this: I have found 
strength to renounce the man I love — I 
shall" never be able to accept another in 
his place!” 

Maurice hung his head, abashed by 
her earnest words, dazzled by the sub- 
lime expression of her face. 

Reason returned ; he realized the enor 
mity of his suspicions, and was horrified 
with himself for having dared to give ut- 
terance to them. 

“Oh! pardon!” he faltered, “pardon! ’ 

What did the mysterious causes of all 
these events which had so rapidly^ suc- 
ceeded each other, or M. Lacheneur’s se 
crets, or Marie-Anne’s reticence, matter 
to him now? 


He was seeking some chance of salva- 
tion ; he believed that he had found it. 

“We must fiy !” he exclaimed; “fly at 
once without pausing to look back. Be- 
fore night we shall have passed the fron- 
tier.” 

He sprang towards her with out- 
stretched arms, as if to seize her and bear 
her away ; but she checked him by a sin- 
gle look. 

“Fly !” said she, reproachfully ; “fly ! — 
and is it you, Maurice, who counsel me 
thus ? What ! while misfortune is crush- 
ing my poor father to the earth, shall I 
add despair and shame to his sorrows? 
His friends have deserted him; shall I, 
his daughter, also abandon him? Ah! if 
I did that, I should be the vilest, the most 
cowardly of creatures! If my father, 
yesterday, when I believed him the owner 
of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice 
to which I consented last evening, I might, 
perhaps, have resolved upon the extreme 
measure you have counselled. In broad 
daylight I might have left Sairmeuse on 
the arm of my lover. It is not the world 
that I fear ! But if one might consent to 
fly from the chateau of a rich and happy 
father, one cannot consent to desert tho 
poor abode of a despairing and penniless 
parent. Leave me, Maurice, where honor 
holds me. It will not be difficult for me, 
who am the daughter of generations of 
peasants, to become a peasant. Go ! — I 
cannot endure more ! Go ! and remem- 
ber that one cannot be utterly'' wretched 
if one’s conscience is clean, and one’s duty 
fulfilled!” 

Maurice was about to reply, when a 
crackling of dry branches made him turn 
his head. 

Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sair- 
meuse was standing motionless, leaning 
upon his gun. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse had slept little 
and poorly on the night following his re- 
turn, or his restoration, as he styled it. 

Inacccessible, as he pretended to be, to 
the emotions which agitate the common 
herd, the scenes of the day had greatly 
excited him. 

He could not help reviewing them, al- 
though he made it the rule of his life never 
to reflect. 

While exposed to the scrutiny of the 
peasants and of his acquaintances at the 
Chateau de Courtornieu, he felt that his 
honor required him to appear cold and 
indifferent, but as soon as he had retired 
to the privacy of his own chamber, he 
gave free vent to his excessive joy. 

For his joy was intense, almost verging 
on delirium. 

Now he was forced to admit to himself 


10 


146 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the immense service Lacheneur had ren- 
dered him in restoring Sairmeuse. 

This poor man to whom he had dis- 
played the blackest ingratitude, this man, 
honest to heroism, whom he had treated 
as an unfaithful servant, had just relieved 
him of an anxiety which had poisoned 
his life. 

Lacheneur had just placed the Duke de 
Sairmeuse beyond the reach of a not 
probable, but very possible calamity 
which he had dreaded for some time. 

If his secret anxiety had been made 
known, it would have created much mer- 
riment. 

“Nonsense!” people would have ex- 
claimed, “every one knows that the Sair- 
meuse possesses property to the amount 
of at least eight or ten millions, in Eng- 
land.” 

This was true. Only these millions, 
which had accrued from the estate of the 
duchess and of Lord Holland, had not 
been bequeathed to the duke. 

He enjoyed absolute control of this 
enormous fortune; he disposed of the 
capital and of the immense revenues to 
please himself ; but it all belonged to his 
son — to his only son. 

The duke possessed nothing — a pitiful 
income of twelve hundred francs, per- 
haps ; but, strictly speaking, not even the , 
means of subsistence. 

Martial, certainly, had never said a 
word which would lead him to suspect 
that he had any intention of removing 
his property from his father's control; 
but he might possibly utter this word. 

Had he not good reason to believe that 
sooner or later this fatal word would be 
uttered? 

And even at the thought of such a con- 
tingency he shuddered with horror. 

He saw himself reduced to a pension, 
a very handsome pension, undoubtedly, 
but still a fixed, immutable, regular pen- 
sion, by which he would be obliged to 
regulate his expenditures. 

He would be obliged to calculate that 
two ends might meet — he, who had been 
accustomed to inexhaustible coffers. 

“And this will necessarily happen 
sooner or later,” he thought. “If Mar- 
tial should marry, or if he should become 
ambitious, or meet with evil counsellors, 
that will be the end of my reign.” 

He watched and studied his son as a 
jealous woman studies and watches the 
lover she mistrusts. He thought he read 
in his eyes many thoughts which were 
not there ; and according as he saw him, 
gay or sad, careless or preoccupied, he 
was reassured or still more alarmed. 

Sometimes he imagined the worst. “If 
I should quarrel with Martial,” he 
thought, “he would take possession of 
his entire fortune, and I should be left 
without bread.” 

These torturing apprehensions were, to 


a man who judged the sentiments of 
others by his own, a terrible chastise- 
ment. 

Ah ! no one would have wished his ex- 
istence at the price he paid for it — not 
even the poor wretches who envied his 
lot and his apparent happiness, as they 
saw him roll by in his magnificent car- 
riage. 

There were days when he almost went 
mad. 

“What am I?” he exclaimed, foaming 
with rage. “A mere plaything in the 
hands of a child. My son owns me. If 
I displease him, he casts me aside. Yes, 
he can dismiss me as he would a lacquey. 
If I enjoy his fortune, it is only because 
he is willing that I should do so. I owe 
my very existence, as well as my luxu- 
ries, to his charity. But a moment of 
anger, even a caprice, may deprive me of 
everything.” 

With such ideas in his brain, the duke 
could not love his son. 

He hated him. 

He passionately envied him all the 
advantages he possessed — his youth, his 
millions, his physical beauty, and his 
talents, which were really of a superior 
order. 

We meet every day mothers who are 
jealous of their daughters, and some 
fathers ! 

This was one of those cases. 

The duke, however, showed no sign of 
mental disquietude; and if Martial had 
possessed less penetration, he would have 
believed that his father adored him. But 
if he had detected the duke’s secret, he 
did not allow him to discover it, nor did 
he abuse his power. 

Their manner towards each other was 
perfect. The duke was kind even to 
weakness; Martial full of deference. 
But their relations were not those of 
father and son. One was in constant 
fear of displeasing the other ; the other 
was a little too sure of his power. They 
lived on a footing of perfect equality, like 
two companions of the same age. 

From this trying situation, Lacheneur 
had rescued the duke. 

The owner of Sairmeuse, an estate 
worth more than a million, the duke was 
free from his son’s tyranny ; he had re- 
covered his liberty. 

What brilliant projects flitted through 
his brain that night ! 

He beheld himself the richest landown- 
er in that locality; he was the chosen 
friend of the king ; had he not a right to 
aspire to anything. 

Such a prospect enchanted him. He 
felt twenty years younger — the twenty 
years that had been passed in exile. 

So, rising before nine o'clock, he went 
to awaken Martial. 

On returning from dining with the 
Marquis de Courtornieu, the evening be- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


147 


fore, the duke had gone through the 
chateau ; but this hasty examination by 
candle-light had not satisfied his curios- 
ity. He wished to see it in detail by day- 
light. 

Followed by his son, he explored one 
after another of the rooms of the princely 
abode; and, with every step, the recol- 
lections of his infancy crowded upon 
him. 

Lacheneur had respected everything. 
The duke found articles as old as him- 
self. religiously preserved, occupying the 
old familiar places from which they had 
never been removed. . 

When his inspection was concluded : 

‘‘Decidedly, marquis,” he exclaimed, 
“this Lacheneur was not such a rascal as 
I supposed. I am disposed to forgive him 
a great deal, on account of the care which 
he has taken of our house in our ab- 
sence.” 

Martial seemed engrossed in thought. 

“I think, monsieur,” he said, at last, 
“that we should testify our gratitude to 
this man by paying him a large indem- 
nity.” 

This word excited the duke’s anger. 

“An indemnity!” he exclaimed. “Are 
you mad, marquis? Think of the income 
that he has received from my estate. 
Have you forgotten the calculation made 
for us last evening by the Chevalier de la 
Livandiere ?” 

“The chevalier is a fool!” declared 
Martial, promptly. “He forgot that La- 
cheneur has trebled the value of Sair- 
meuse. I think that our family honor 
requires us to bestow upon this man an 
indemnity of at least one hundred thou- 
sand francs. This would, moreover, be 
a good stroke of policy in the present 
state of public sentiment, and his majesty 
would, 1 am sure, be much pleased.” 

“Stroke of policy” — “public senti- 
ment” — “his majesty.” One might have 
obtained almost anything from M. de 
Sairmeuse b}’" these arguments. 

“Heavenly powers!” he exclaimed; “a 
hundred thousand francs ! how you talk ! 
It is all very well for you, with your for- 
tune ! Still, if you really think so ” 

“Ah! my dear sir, is not my fortune 
yours? Yes. such is really my opinion. 
So much so, indeed, that if you will allow 
me to do so, I will see Lacheneur myself, 
and arrange the matter in such a way 
that his pride will not be wounded. His 
is a devotion which it would be well to 
retain.” 

The duke opened his eyes to their 
widest extent. 

“Lacheneur’s pride!” he murmured. 
“Devotion which it would be well to 
retain! Why do you sing in this strain? 
Whence comes this extraordinary in- 
terest ?” 

He paused, enlightened by a sudden re- 
collection. 


“I understand !” he exclaimed; “I un- 
derstand. He has a pretty daughter.” 

Martial smiled without replying. 

“Yes, pretty as a rose,” continued the 
duke ; “but one hundred thousand francs ; 
Zounds ! That is a round sum to pay for 
such a whim. But, if you insist upon 
it ” 

Armed with this authorization, Mau- 
rice, two hours later, started on his mis- 
sion. 

The first peasant he met told him the 
way to the cottage which M. Lacheneur 
now occupied. 

“Follow the river,” said the man, “and 
when you see a pine grove upon your 
left, cross it.” 

Martial was crossing it, when he heard 
the sound of voices. He approached, re- 
cognized Marie-Anne and Maurice d Es- 
corval, and obeying an angry impulse, 
he paused. 


CHAPTER LIV 

During the decisive moments of life, 
when one’s entire future depends upon a 
word, or a gesture, twenty contradictory 
inspirations can traverse the mind in the 
time occupied by a flash of lightning. 

On the sudden apparition of the young 
Marquis de Sairmeuse, Maurice d’Es- 
corval’s first thought was this : 

“How long has he been there? Has he 
been playing the spy? Has he been lis- 
tening to us? What did he hear?” 

His first impulse was to spring upon 
his enemy, to strike him in the face, and 
compel him to engage in a hand to hand 
struggle. 

The thought of Anne-Marie checked 
him. 

He reflected upon the possible, even 
probable results of a quarrel born of 
such circumstances. The combat which 
would ensue would cost this pure young 
girl her reputation. Martial would talk 
of it; and country people are pitiless. 
He saw this girl, whom he looked so de- 
votedly upon, become the talk of the 
neighborhood; saw the finger of scorn 
pointed at her, and possessed sufficient 
self-control to master his anger. All 
these reflections had occupied only half 
a second. 

Then, politely touching his hat, and 
stepping toward Martial : 

“You are a stranger monsieur,” said 
he, in a voice which was frightfully al- 
tered, “and you have doubtless lost your 
way ?” 

His words were ill-chosen, and de- 
feated his prudent intentions. A curt 
“Mind your own business” would have 
been less wounding. He forgot that this 
word “stranger” was the most deadly 
insult that one could cast in the face of 


148 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


the former emigres , who had returned 
with the allied armies. 

Still the young marquis did not change 
his insolently nonchalant attitude. 

He touched the visor of his hunting 
cap with his finger, and replied : 

‘•‘•It is true — I have lost my way.” 

Agitated as Marie- Anne was, she could 
not fail to understand that her presence 
was all that restrained the hatred of these 
two young men. Their attitude, the 
glance with which they measured each 
other, did not leave the shadow of a 
doubt on that score. If one was ready 
to spring upon the other, the other was 
on the alert, ready to defend himself. 

The silence of nearly a moment which 
followed was as threatening as the pro- 
found calm which precedes the storm. 

Martial was the first to break it. 

“A peasant’s directions are not gener- 
ally remarkable for their clearness,” he 
said, lightly ; “and for more than an hour 
I have been seeking the house to which 
M. Lacheneur has retired.” 

“Ah!” 

“I am sent to him by the Duke de Sair- 
meuse, my father.” 

Knowing what he did, Maurice sup- 
posed that these strangely rapacious in- 
dividuals had some new demand to make. 

“I thought,” said he, “that all rela- 
tions between M. Lacheneur and M. 
de Sairmeuse were broken oft’ last even- 
ing at the house of the abbe.” 

This was said in the most provoking 
manner, and yet Martial never so much 
as frowned. He had sworn that he would 
remain calm, and he had strength enough 
to keep his word. 

“If these relations — as God forbid — 
have been broken off.” he replied, “be- 
lieve me, Monsieur d’Escorval, it is no 
fault of ours.” 

“Then it is not as people say.” 

“What people? Who?” 

“The people here in the neighborhood.” 

“Ah ! And what do these people say?” 

“The truth. That you have been guilty 
of an offense which a man of honor could 
never forgive nor forget.” 

The young marquis shook his head 
gravely. 

“You are quick to condemn, sir,” he 
said, coldly. “Permit me to hope that 
M. Lacheneur will be less severe than 
yourself; and that his resentment— just, 
I confess, will vanish before” — he hesi- 
tated — “before a truthful explanation.” 

Such an expression from the lips of 
this hauty ygung aristocrat ! Was it pos- 
sible? 

Martial profited by the effect he had 
produced to advance towards Marie- 
Anne, and, addressing himself exclusive- 
ly to her, seemed after that to ignore the 
presence of Maurice completely. 

“For there has been a mistake— a mis- 
understanding, mademoiselle,” he contin- 


ued. “Do not doubt it. The Sairmeuse 
are not ingrates. How could any one 
have supposed that we would intentional- 
ly give offense to a — devoted friend of 
our family, and that at a moment when 
he had rendered us a most signal service ! 
A true gentleman like my father, and a 
hero of probity like yours, cannot fail to 
esteem each other. 1 admit that in the 
scene of yesterday, M. de Sairmeuse did 
not appear to advantage but the step he 
takes to-day proves his sincere regret.” 

Certainly this was not the cavalier 
tone which he had employed in address- 
ing Marie-Anne, for the first time, on the 
square in front of the church. 

He had removed his hat, he remained 
half inclined before her, and he spoke in 
a tone of profound respect, as though it 
were a haughty duchess, and not the 
humble daughter of that “rascal” Lach- 
eneur whom he was addressing. 

Was it only a roue's manoeuvre? Or 
had he also involuntarily submitted to 
the power of this beautiful girl? It 
was both ; and it would have been diffi- 
cult for him to say where the voluntary 
ended, and where the involuntary began. 

He continued : 

“My father is an old man who has 
suffered cruelly. Exile is hard to bear. 
But if sorrows and deceptions have em- 
bittered his character, they have not 
changed his heart. His apparent impe- 
riousness and arrogance conceal a kind- 
ness of heart which I have often seen de- 
generate into positive weakness. And — • 
why should I not confess it? — the Duke 
de Sairmeuse, with his white hair, still 
retains the illusions of a child. He re- 
fuses to believe that the world has pro- 
gressed during the past twenty years. 
Moreover, people had deceived him by 
the most absurd fabrications. To speak 
plainly, even while we were in Montaig- 
nac, M. Lacheneur's enemies succeeded 
in prejudicmg my father against him.” 

One would have sworn that he was 
speaking the truth, so persuasive was his 
voice, so entirely did the expression of 
his face, his glance, and his gestures ac- 
cord with his words. 

And Maurice, who felt — who was cer- 
tain that the young man was lying, im- 
pudently lying, was abashed by tins scien- 
tific prevarication which is so universally 
practiced in good society, and of which 
he was entirely ignorant. 

“But what did the marquis desire here 
— and wliy this farce?” 

“Need I tell you, mademoiselle,” he 
resumed, “all that I suffered last evening 
in the little drawing-room in the presby- 
tery? No, never in my whole life can I 
recollect such a cruel moment. I under- 
stood, and I did honor to M. LacheneuFs 
heroism. Hearing of our arrival, he, 
without hesitation, without delay, has- 
tened to voluntarily surrender a princely 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


149 


fortune— and he was insulted. This ex- could not fail to understand the meaning 

cessive injustice horrified me. And if I of the young marquis. 

did not openly protest against it — if I did He was evidently “paying his court to 

not show my indignation — it was onty be- her.” And with what intentions! It 

cause contradiction drives my father to was only too easy to divine. 

the verge of frenzy. And what goodj Her agitation, while the marquis spoke 

i UU e t < ] )ne . P r °test? m a more and more tender voice, changed 

1 he fihal love and piety which } r ou dis- stupor, then to indignation, as 
'' eie ^ ar mor ® powerful in their s j ie i-ealized his marvelous audacity, 
eft ect than any words of mine would After that, how could she help bless- 
liaAe been. \ou Avere scarcely out of i n g the violence which put an end to a 
the village befoie M. de Sairmeuse, al-| s ituation which was so insulting for her, 
ready ashamed of Ins injustice, said to an q s0 humiliating f or Maurice, 
me: ‘I have been wrong, but I am an old) A ,. . , , 

man; it is hard for me to decide to make 1 . An ordinary woman would have thrown 
the first advance ; you, marquis, go and between the tw r o men who were 

find M. Lacheneur, and obtain his for- reac ^ t0 each other. Mane-Anne did 
’ not move a muscle. 


giveness. 7 77 

Marie- Anne, redder than a peony, and 
terribly embarrassed, lowered her eyes. 

“I thank you, monsieur,” she faltered, 
“in the name of my father ” 

“Oh! do not thank me,” interrupted 
Martial earnestly ; “it will be my duty, 
on the contrary, to render you thanks, if 
you can induce M. Lacheneur to accept 
the reparation which is due him — and he 
will accept it, if you will only conde- 
scend to plead our cause. Who could 
resist your sweet voice, your beautiful, 
.beseeching eyes?” 

However inexperienced Maurice might 
be, he could no longer fail to comprehend 
Martial’s intentions. This man whom he 
mortally hated already, dared to speak 
of love to Marie-Anne, and before him, 
Maurice. In other words, the marquis, 
not content with having ignored and in- 
sulted him, presumed to take an insolent 
advantage of his supposed simplicity. 

The certainty of this insult sent all 
his blood in a boiling torrent to his brain. 

He seized Martial by the arm. and with 
irresistible power whirled him twice 


Was it not the duty of Maurice to pro- 
tect her when she was insulted? Who, 
then, if not he, should defend her from 
the insolent gallantry of this libertine? 
She would have blushed, she who was 
energy personified, to love a weak and 
pusillanimous man. 

But any intervention was unnecessary. 
Maurice comprehended that this was one 
of those affronts which the person insult- 
ed must not seem to suspect, under pen- 
alty of giving the offending party the 
advantage. 

He felt that Marie-Anne must not be 
regarded as the cause of the quarrel ! 

His instant recognition of the situation, 
produced a powerful reaction in his 
mind ; and he recovered, as if by magic, 
his coolness and the free exercise of his 
faculties. 

“Yes,” he resumed, defiantly, “this is 
hypocrisy enough. To dare to prate of 
reparation after the insults that you and 
yours have inflicted, is adding intentional 
humiliation to insult — and I will not per- 
mit it.” 

Martial had thrown aside his gun ; he 


around, then threw him more than ten now rose and brushed the 


to 

knee 


of his 


threatening 


feet, exclaiming : 

“This last is too much. Marquis 
Sairmeuse !” 

Maurice’s attitude was so 
that Martial fully expected another at- 
tack. The violence of the shock had 
thrown him down upon one knee; with- 
out rising, he lifted his gun, ready to 
take aim. 

It was not from anything like coward- 
ice on the part of the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse that he decided to fire upon an 
unarmed foe; but the affront which 
he had received was so deadly and so 
ignoble in his opinion, that he would 
have shot Maurice like a dog, 
than feel the weight of his 


him 


finger 


rather 

upon 


pantaloons, to which a few particles of 
dejdust had adhered, with a phlegm whose 
secret he had learned in England. 

He was too discerning not to perceive 
that Maurice had disguised the true cause 
of his outburst of passion ; but what did 
it matter to him? Had he avowed it, 
the marquis would not have been dis- 
pleased. 

Yet it was necessary to make some re- 
sponse, and to preserve ihe superiority 
which he imagined he had maintained up 
to that time. 

“You will never know, monsieur,” he 
said, glancing alternately at his gun and 
at Marie-Anne, “all that you owe to Mile. 
Lacheneur. We shall meet again, I hope 


This explosion of anger from Maurice, 
M arie-Anne had been expecting and hop- 
ing for every moment. 

She was even more inexperienced than 
her lover ; but she was a woman, and 


“You have made that remark before.” 
Maurice interrupted, tauntingly. “Noth- 
ing is easier than to find me. The first 
peasant you meet will point out the house 
of Baron d’Escorval.” 


150 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


u Eh bien ! sir — I cannot promise that 
you will not see two of my friends.” 

“Oh ! whenever it may please you !” 

“Certainly; but it would gratify me to 
know by what right you make yourself 
the judge of M. Lacheneur’s honor, and 
take it upon yourself to defend what has 
not been attacked. Who has given you 
this right?” 

From Martial’s sneering tone, Maurice 
was certain that he had overheard, at 
least, a part of his conversation with 
Marie- Anne. 

“My right,” he replied, “is that of 
friendship. If I tell you that your ad- 
vances are unwelcome, it is because I 
know that M. Lacheneur will accept 
nothing from you. No, nothing, under 
whatever guise you may offer these alms 
which you tender merely to appease your 
own conscience. He will never forgive 
the affront which is his honor and your 
shame. Ah! you thought to degrade 
him, Messieurs de Sairmeuse! and you 
have lifted him far above your mock 
grandeur. He receive anything from 
you ! Go, leam that your millions will 
never give you a pleasure equal to the in- 
effable joy ho will feel, when seeing you 
roll by in your carriage, he says to him- 
self: ‘Those people owe everything to 
me !’ ” 

His burning words vibrated with such 
intensity of feeling that Marie-Anne 
could not resist the impulse to press his 
hand ; and this gesture was his revenge 
upon Martial, who turned pale with 
passion. 

“But I have still another right,” con- 
tinued Maurice. “My father yesterday 
had the honor of asking of M. Lacheneur 
the hand of his daughter ” 

“And I refused it!” cried a terrible 
voice. 

Marie-Anne and both young men turned 
with the same movement of alarm and 
aurprise. 

M. Lacheneur stood before them, and 
by his side was Chanlouineau, who sur- 
veyed the group with threatening eyes. 

“Yes, I refused it,” resumed M. La- 
cheneur, “and I do not believe that my 
daughter will marry any one without my 
consent. What did you promise me this 
morning, Marie-Anne? Can it be you, 
you who grant a rendezvous to gallants 
in the forest? Return to the house, in- 
stantly ” 

“But father ” 

“Return!” he repeated with an oath, 
“return, I command you.” 

She obeyed and departed, not without 
giving Maurice a look in which he read a 
farewell that she believed would be eter- 
nal. 

As soon as she had gone, perhaps twen- 
ty paces, M. Lacheneur, with folded arms, 
confronted Maurice. 

“As for you, Monsieur d’Escorval,” 


said he, rudely, “I hope that you will no 
longer undertake to prowl around my 
daughter ” 

“I swear to you, monsieur ” 

“Oh, no oaths, if you please. It is an 
evil action to endeavor to turn a young 
girl from her duty, which is obedience. 
You have broken forever all relations bo- 
tween your family and mine.” 

The poor youth tried to excuse him- 
self; but M. Lacheneur interrupted him. 

“Enough! enough!” said he, “go back 
to your home.” 

And as Maurice hesitated, he seized him 
by the collar and dragged him to the 
little foot-path, leading through the 
grove. 

It was the work of scarcely ten seconds, 
and yet, he found time to whisper in the 
young man’s ear, in his formerly friendly 
tones : 

“Go, you little wretch ! do you wish to 
render all my precautions useless?” 

He watched Maurice as he disappeared, 
bewildered by the scene he had just wit- 
nessed, and stupefied by what he had just 
heard ; and it was not until he saw that 
young D’Escorval was out of hearing, 
that he turned to Martial. 

“As I have had the honor of meeting 
you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said he, “I 
deem it my duty to inform you that Chu- 
pin and his sons are searching for you 
everywhere. It is at the instance of the 
duke, your father, who is anxious for 
you to .repair at once to the chateau de 
Courtornieu.” 

He turned to Chanlouineau, and added : 

“We will now proceed on our way.” 

But Martial detained him with a ges- 
ture. 

“I am much surprised to hear that they 
are seeking me,” said he. 

“My father knows very w T ell where he 
sent me — I was going to your house, 
monsieur, and at his request.” 

“To my house?” 

“To your house, yes, monsieur, to ex- 
press our sincere regret at the scene 
which took place at the presbytery last 
evening.” 

And without waiting for any response, 
Martial, with wonderful cleverness and 
felicity of expression, began to repeat to 
the father the story which he had just 
related to the daughter. 

According to his version, his father 
and himself were in despair. How could 
M. Lacheneur suppose them guilty of 
such black ingratitude? Why had he re- 
tired so precipitately ? The Duke de Sair- 
meuse held at M. Lacheneur’s disposal 
any amount which it might please him to 
mention — sixty, a hundred thousand 
francs, even more. 

But M. Lacheneur did not appear to be 
dazzled in the least ; and when Martial 
had concluded, he replied, respectfully 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


151 


but coldly, that he would consider the 
matter. 

This coldness amazed Chanlouineau ; 
he did not conceal the fact when the 
marquis, after many earnest protesta- 
tions, at last wended his way home- 
ward. 

“We have misjudged these people,” he 
declared. 

Rut M. Lacheneur shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

“And so you are foolish enough to sup- 
pose that it was to me that he offered all 
that money?” 

“Zounds ! I have ears.” 

“Ah well! my poor boy, you must not 
believe all they hear, if you have. The 
truth is, that these large sums were in- 
tended to win the favor of my daughter. 
She has pleased this coxcomb of a mar- 
quis; and — he wishes to make her his 
mistress ” 

Chanlouineau stopped short, with eyes 
flashing, and hands clenched. 

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “prove 
that, and I am yours, body and soul — to 
do anything you desire?’ 5 


CHAPTER LV. 

“No, never in my whole life have I 
met a woman who can compare with this 
Marie-Anne ! What grace and what dig- 
nity ! Ah ! her beauty is divine !” 

So Martial was thinking while return- 
ing to Sairmeuse after his proposals to 
M. Lacheneur. 

At the risk of losing his way he took 
the shortest course, which led across the 
fields and over ditches, which he leaped 
with the aid of his gun. 

He found a pleasure, entirely novel and 
very delightful, in picturing Marie-Anne 
as he had just seen her, blushing and pal- 
ing. about to swoon, then lifting her head 
haughtily in her pride and disdain. 

Who would have suspected that such 
indomitable energy, and such an impas- 
sioned soul, was hidden beneath such 
girlish artlessness and apparent coldness? 
Wiiat an adorable expression illumined 
her face, what passion shone in those 
great black eyes when she looked at that 
little fool D'Escorval? What would not 
one give to be regarded thus, even for a 
moment? How could the boy help being 
crazy about her? 

He himself, loved her, without being, 
as yet, willing to confess it. What other 
name could be given to this passion which 
had overpowered reason, and ^o the fu- 
rious desires which agitated him. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “she shall be 
mine. Yes, she shall be mine — I will 
have her !” 

Consequently he began to study the 


strategic side of the undertaking which 
this resolution involved with the sagaci- 
ty of one who had not been without an 
extended experience in such matters. 

His debut , he was forced to admit, had 
been neither fortunate nor adroit. Con- 
veyed compliments and money had both 
been rejected. If Marie-Anne had heard 
his covert insinuations with evident hor- 
ror, M. Lacheneur had received, with 
even more than coldness, his advances 
and his offers of actual wealth. 

Moreover, he remembered Chanloui- 
neau’s terrible eyes. 

“How he measured me, that magnifi- 
cent rustic!” he growled. “At a sign 
from Marie-Anne he would have crushed 
me like an egg-shell, without a thought 
of my ancestors. Ah ! does he also love 
her? There will be three rivals in that 
case.” 

But the more difficult and even peri- 
lous the undertaking seemed, the more 
his passions were inflamed. 

“My failures can be repaired,” he 
thought. “Occasions of meeting shall 
not be wanting. Will it not be necessa- 
ry to hold frequent interviews with M. 
Lacheneur in effecting a formal transfer 
of Sairmeuse? I will win him over to 
my side. With the daughter my course 
is plain. Profiting by my unfortunate 
experience, I will in the future, be as 
timid as I have been bold ; and she will 
be hard to please if she is not flattered 
by this triumph of her beauty. D’Es- 
corval remains to be disposed of ” 

But this was the point upon which 
Martial was most exercised. 

He had, it is true, seen this rival rude- 
ly dismissed by M. Lacheneur; and yet 
the anger of the latter had seemed to 
him too great to be absolutely real. 

He suspected a comedy, but for whose 
benefit? For his, or for Chanlouineau’s? 
And yet, what could possibly be the 
motive ? 

“And yet,” he reflected, “my hands 
are tied; and I cannot call this little 
D’Escorval to account for his insolence. 
To swallow such an affront in silence — is 
hard. Still, he is brave, there is no de- 
nying that, perhaps I can find some 
other way to provoke his anger. But 
even then, what could I do? If I harmed 
a hair of his head, Marie-Anne would 
never forgive me. Ah ! I would give a 
handsome sum in exchange for some 
little device to send him out of the 
country.” 

Revolving in his mind these plans, 
whose frightful consequences he could 
neither calculate nor foresee. Martial was 
walking up the avenue leading to the 
chateau, when he heard hurried foot- 
steps behind him. 

He turned, and seeing two men run- 
ning after him and motioning him to 
stop, he paused. 


152 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


It was Chupin, accompanied by one of 
his sons. 

This old rascal had been enrollec 
among the servants charged with pre- 
paring Sairmeuse for the reception of the 
duke ; and he had already discovered the 
secret of making himself useful to his 
master, which was by seeming to be in- 
dispensable. 

“Ah, monsieur,” he cried, “we have 
been searching for you everywhere, my 
son and I. It w r as M. le Due ” 

“Very well,” said Martial, d yly. “I 
am returning ” 

But Chupm was not sensative; and 
although he had not been very favorably 
received, he ventured to follow the mar- 
quis at a little distance, but sufficiently 
near to make himself heard. He also 
had his schemes ; for it was not long be- 
fore he began a long recital of the cal- 
umnies which had been spread about the 
neighborhood in regard to the Lacheneur 
affair. Why did he choose this subject 
in preference to any other? Did he sus- 
pect the young marquis’ passion for 
Marie-Anne ? 

According to this report, Lacheneur — 
he no longer said “monsieur” — was un- 
questionably a rascal ; the complete sur- 
render of Sairmeuse was only a farce, 
as he must possess thousands, and 
hundreds of thousands of francs, since he 
was about to marry his daughter. 

If the scoundrel had felt only suspi- 
cions, they were changed into certainty 
by the eagerness with which Martial de- 
manded : 

“How ! is Mile. Lacheneur to be mar- 
ried?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“And to whom.” 

“To Chanlouineau, the fellow whom 
the peasants wished to kill yesterday 
upon the square, because he was disre- 
spectful to the duke. He is an avari- 
cious man; and if Marie-Anne does not 
bring him a good round sum as a dowry, 
he will never marry her, no matter how 
beautiful she may be.” 

“Are you sure of what you say?” 

“It is true. My eldest son heard from 
Chanlouineau and from Lacheneur that 
the wedding would take place within a 
month.” 

And turning to his son : 

“Is it not true, boy?” 

“Yes,” promptly replied the youth, 
who had heard nothing of the kind. 

Martial was silent, ashamed, perhaps, 
of allowing himself to listen to the gos- 
sip, but glad to have been informed of 
such an important circumstance. 

If Chupin w\as not telling a falsehood 
— and what reason could "he have for 
doing so — it became evident that M. 
Lacheneur’s conduct concealed some 
great mystery. Why, without some 
potent motive, should he have refused 


to give his daugter to Maurice d’Escorval 
whom she loved, to bestow her upon a 
peasant ? 

As he reached Sairmeuse, he was 
swearing that he would discover this 
motive. A strange scene awaited him. 
In the broad open space extending from 
the front of the chateau to the parterre 
lay a huge pile of all kinds of clothing, 
linen, plate and furniture. One might 
have supposed that the occupants of the 
chateau were moving. A half dozen 
men w'ere running to and fro, and stand- 
ing in the centre of the rubbish was 
the Duke de Sairmeuse, giving orders. 

Martial did not understand the w'hole 
meaning of the scene at first. He went 
to his father, and after saluting him re- 
spectfully, inquired : 

“What is all this?” 

M. de Sairmeuse laughed heartily. 

“What, can you not guess?” he re- 
plied. “It is very simple, however. 
When the lawful master, on his return, 
sleeps beneath the bed-coverings of the 
usurper, it is delightful, the first night, 
not so pleasant on the second. Every- 
thing here reminds me too forcibly of 
Monsieur Lacheneur. It seems to me 
that I am in his house, and the thought is 
unendurable. So I have had them col- 
lect everything belonging to him and to 
his daughter — everything, in fact, which 
did not belong to the chateau in former 
years. The servants will put it all into a 
cart and carry it to him.” 

The young marquis gave fervent thanks 
to Heaven that he had arrived before it 
was too late. Had his father’s project 
been executed, he would have been 
obliged to bid farewell to all his hopes. 

“You surely will not do this, Monsieur 
le Due?” said he, earnestly. 

“And why, pray? Who will prevent 
me from doing it?” 

“No one, most assuredly. But you 
will decide, on reflection, that a man who 
has not conducted himself too badly has 
a right to some consideration.” 

The duke seemed greatly astonished. 

“Consideration!” he exclaimed. “This 
rascal has a right to some consideration ! 
Well, this is one of the poorest of jokes. 
What! I give him— that is to say — you 
give him a hundred thousand francs, and 
that will not content him ! He is entitled 
to consideration ! You, who are after the 
daughter, may give it to him if you like, 
t)ut I shall do as I like !” 

“Very well; but, monsieur, I would 
think twice, if I were in your place. 
Lacheneur has surrendered Sairmeuse. 
That is all very well ; but how can you 
authenticate your claim to the property? 
What would you do if, in case you im- 
prudently irritated him. he should change 
pis mind? What would become of your 
right to the estate?” 

M. Sairmeuse actually turned green. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


153 


“Zounds !” he exclaimed. “I had not 
thought of that. Here, you fellows, 
take all these things back again, and that 
quickly !” 

And as they were obeying his order : 

“Now,” he remarked, “let us hasten to 
Courtornieu. They have already sent 
for us twice. It must be business of the 
utmost importance which ' demands our 
attention.” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

Tite Chateau de Courtornieu is, next 
to Sairmeuse, the most magnificent habi- 
tation in the arrondissement of Mon- 
taignac. 

The approach to the castle was by a 
long and narrow road, badly paved. 
When the carriage containing Martial 
and his father turned from the public 
highway into this rough road, the jolting 
aroused the duke from the profound rev- 
erie into which he had fallen on leaving 
Sairmeuse. 

The marquis thought that he had 
caused this unusual fit of abstraction. 

“It is the result of my adroit manoeu- 
vre,” he said to himself, not without 
secret satisfaction. “Until the restitu- 
tion of Sairmeuse is legalized, I can make 
my father do anything I wish ; yes, any- 
thing. And if it is necessary, he will 
even invite Lacheneur and Marie-Anne to 
his table.” 

He was mistaken. The duke had 
already forgotten the affair; his most 
vivid impressions lasted no longer than 
an indentation in the sand. 

He lowered the glass in front of the 
carriage, and, after ordering the coach- 
man to drive more slowly : 

“Now,” said he to his son, “let us talk 
a little. Are you really in love with that 
litte Lacheneur?” 

Martial could not repress a start. “Oh ! 
in love,” said he, lightly, “that would 
perhaps be saying too much. Let me say 
that she has taken my fancy, that will be 
sufficient.” 

The duke regarded his son with a ban- 
tering air. 

“Really, you delight me!” he ex- 
claimed. “I feared that this love affair 
might derange, at least for the moment, 
certain plans that I have formed — for I 
have formed certain plans for you.” 

“The devil!” 

“Yes, I have my plans, and I will com- 
municate them to you later in detail. I 
will content myself today by recommend- 
ing you to examine Mile. Blanche de 
Courtornieu.” 

Martial made no reply. This recom- 
mendation was entirely unnecessary. If 
Mile. Lacheneur had made him forget 
Mile, de Courtornieu that morning for 


some moments, the remembrnnee of 
Marie-Anne was now effaced by the radi- 
ant image of Blanche. 

“Before discussing the daughter,” re- 
sumed the duke, “let us speak of the fa- 
ther. He is one of my strongest friends ; 
and I know him thoroughly. You have 
heard men reproach me for what thej' - 
style my prejudices, have you not? Well, 
in comparison with the Marquise de 
Courtornieu, 1 am only a Jacobin.” , 

“Oh ! my father !” 

“Really, nothing could be more true. 
If I am behind the age in which I live, 
he belongs to the reign of Louis XIY. 
Only — for there is an only — the princi- 
ples which I openly avow, he keeps 
locked up in his snuff box — and trust 
him for not forgetting to open it at the 
opportune moment. lie has suffered cru- 
elly for his opinions, in the sense of 
having so often been obliged to conceal 
them. He concealed them, first, under 
the consulate, when he returned from 
exile. He dissimulated them even more 
courageously under the Empire — for he 
played the part of a kind of a chamber- 
lain to Bonaparte, this dear marquis. 
But, chut ! do not remind him of that 
proof of heroism ; he has deplored it bit- 
terly since the battle of Lutzen.” 

This was the tone in which M. de Sair- 
meuse was accustomed to speak of his 
best friends. 

“The history of his fortune,” he con- 
tinued, “is the history of his marriages — 
I say marriages , because he has married a 
number of times, and always advantage- 
ously. Yes, in a period of fifteen years 
he has had the misfortune of losing three 
wives, each richer than the other. His 
daughter is the child of his third and 
last wife, a Cisse Blossac — she died in 
1809. He comforted himself alter each 
bereavement by purchasing a quantity of 
lands or bonds. So that now he is as 
rich as you are, marquis, and his influ- 
ence is powerful and wide-spread. I for- 
got one de^il, however ; he believes, they 
tell me, in the growing power of the 
clergy, and has become very devout.” 

He checked himself ; the carriage had 
stopped before the entrance of the Chat- 
eau de Courtornieu, and the marquis 
came forward to receive his guests in 
person. A flattering distinction, which 
he seldom lavished upon his visitors. 
The marquis was long rather than tall, 
and very solemn in deportment. The 
head that surmounted his angular form 
was remarkably small, a characteristic 
of his race, and covered with thin glossy 
black hair, and lighted by cold, round 
black eyes. 

The pride that becomes a gentleman, 
and the humility that befits a Christian, 
were continually at war with each other 
in his countenance. 

He pressed the hands of M. de Sair- 


154 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


meuse and Martial, overwhelming them 
with compliments uttered in a thin, rather 
nasal voice, which, issuing from his im- 
mense body, was as astonishing as the 
sound of a iiute issuing from the pipes of 
an orphicleide would be. 

“At last you have come,” he said; “we 
were waiting for you before beginning 
our deliberations upon a very grave, 
and also very delicate matter. We 
are thinking of addressing a petition to 
his majesty. The nobility, who have 
suffered so much during the Revolution, 
have a right to expect ample compensa- 
tion. Our neighbors, to the number of 
sixteen, are now assembled in my cabi- 
net, transformed for the time into a coun- 
cil chamber. 

Martial shuddered at the thought of all 
the ridiculous and tiresome conversation 
he would probably be obliged to hear ; 
and his father’s recommendation occurred 
to him. 

“Shall we not have the honor of pay- 
ing our respects to Mile, de Courtor- 
nieu?” 

“My daughter must be in the drawing- 
room with our cousin,” replied the mar- 
quis in an indifferent tone; “at least, if 
she is not in the garden.” 

This might be construed into, “Go, and 
look for her if you choose.” At least 
Martial understood it in that way ; and 
when they entered the hall, he allowed 
his father and the marquis to go up-stairs 
without him. 

A servant opened the door of the draw- 
ing room for him — but it was empty. 

“Very well,” said he; “I know my 
way to the garden.” 

But he explored it in vain ; no one was 
to be found. 

He deeided to return to the house and 
march bravely into the presence of the 
dreaded enemy. He had turned to re- 
trace his steps when, through the foliage 
of a bower of jasmine, he thought he 
could distinguish a white dress. 

He advanced softly, and his heart 
quickened its throbbing when he saw that 
he was right. 

Mile. Blanche de Courtornieu was 
seated on a bench beside an old lady, and 
was engaged in reading a letter in a low 
voice. 

She must have been greatly preoccu- 
pied, since she had not heard Martial’s 
footsteps approaching. 

He was only ten paces from her, so 
near that he could distinguish the shadow 
of her long eyelashes. 

He paused, holding his breath, in a de- 
licious ecstacy. 

“Ah ! how beautiful she is !” he 
thought. Beautiful? no. But pretty, 
yes ; as pretty as heart could desire, with 
her great velvety blue eyes and her pout- 
ing lips. She was a blonde, but one of 
those dazzling and radiant blondes found 


'only in the countries of the sun; and 
from her hair, drawn high upon the top 
of her head, escaped a profusion of rav- 
ishing , glittering ringlets, which seemed 
almost to sparkle in the play of the light 
breeze. 

One might, perhaps, have wished her a 
trifle larger. But she had the winning 
charm of all delicate and mignonnes 
women ; and her figure was of exquisite 
roundness, and her dimpled hands were 
those of an infant. 

Alas! these attractive exteriors are 
often deceitful, as much and even more 
so, than the appearances of a man like the 
Marquis de Courtornieu. 

The apparently innocent and artless 
young girl possessed the parched, hollow 
soul of an experienced woman of the 
world, or of an old courtier. She had 
been so petted at the convent, in the ca- 
pacity of only daughter of a grand seig- 
neur and millionaire ; she had been sur- 
rounded by so much adulation, that all 
her good qualities had been blighted in 
the bud by the poisonous breath of 
flattery. 

She was only nineteen ; and still it was 
impossible for any person to have been 
more susceptible to the charms of wealth 
and of satisfied ambition. She dreamed 
of a position at court as a school-girl 
dreams of a lover. 

If she had deigned to notice Martial — • 
for she had remarked him — it was only 
because her father had told her that this 
young man would lift his wife to the 
highest sphere of power. Thereupon she 
had uttered a “very well, w^e wflll see!” 
that would have changed an enamored 
suitor’s love into disgust. 

Martial advanced a few r steps, and Mile. 
Blanche, on seeing him, sprang up with 
a pretty affectation of intense timidity. 

Bowing low belore her, he said, gently 
and with profound deference : 

“M. de Courtornieu, mademoiselle, was 
so kind as to tell me where I might have 
the honor of finding you. I had not 
courage to brave those formidable discus- 
sions inside ; but ” 

He pointed to the letter the young girl 
held in her hand, and added : 

“But I fear that I am de trap.” 

“Oh ! not in the least. Monsieur le Mar- 
quis, although this letter which I have 
just been reading has, I confess, inter- 
ested me deeply. It was written by a 
poor child in whom I have taken a great 
interest — whom I have sent for some- 
times when I was lonely — Marie-Anne 
Lacheneur.” 

Accustomed from his infancy to the 
hypocrisy of drawing-rooms, the young 
marquis had taught his face not to be- 
tray his feelings. 

He couly have laughed gayly with an- 
guish at his heart; he could have pre- 


/ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 155 


served the sternest gravity when inward- 
ly convulsed with merriment. 

And yet, this name of Marie-Anne 
upon the lips of Mile, de Courtornieu, 
caused his glance to waver. 

“They know each other !” he thought. 

In an instant he was himself again ; but 
Mile. Blanche had perceived his moment- 
ary agitation. 

“What can it mean?” she wondered, 
much disturbed. 

Still, it was with the perfect assump- 
tion of innocence that she continued ! 

“In fact, you must have seen her, this 
poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, 
since her father was the guardian of 
Sairmeuse?” 

“Yes, I have seen her, mademoiselle,” 
replied Martial, quietly. 

“Is she not remarkably beautiful? Her 
beauty is of an unusual type, it quite 
takes one by surprise.” 

A fool would have protested. The mar- 
quis was not guilty of this folly. 

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he. 

This apparent frankness disconcerted 
Mile. Blanche a trifle ; and it was with an 
air of hypocritical compassion that she 
murmured : 

“Poor girl I What will become of her? 
Here is her father, reduced to delving in 
the ground.” 

“Oh! you exaggerate, mademoiselle; 
my father will always preserve Lache- 
neur from anything of that kind.” 

“Of course — I might have known that 
— but where will he find a husband for 
Marie-Anne?” 

“One has been found, already. I un- 
derstand that she is to marry a youth in 
the neighborhood, who has some property 
— a certain Chanlournieu.” 

The artless school-girl was more cun- 
ning thgn the marquis. She had satisfied 
herself that she had just grounds for her 
suspicions ; and she experienced a certain 
anger on finding him so well informed in 
regard to everything that concerned Mile. 
Lacheneur. 

“And do you believe that this is the hus- 
band of whom she had dreamed? Ah, 
well ! God grant that she may be happy ; 
for we were very fond of her, very — were 
we not, Aunt Medea?” 

Aunt Medea was the old lady seated 
beside Mile. Blanche. 

“Yes, very,” she replied. 

This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor 
relation whom M. de Courtornieu had 
sheltered, and who was forced to pay 
dearly for her bread; since Mile. Blanche 
compelled her to play the part of echo. 

“It grieves me to see these friendly re- 
lations, which were so dear to me, 
broken,” resumed Mile, de Courtornieu. 
“But listen to what Marie-Anne hasj 
written.” 

She drew from her belt where she had I 


placed it, Mile. Laclieneur’s letter and 
read : 

“My dear Blanche— You know that 
the Duke de Sairmeuse has returned. The 
news fell upon us like a thunderbolt. 
My father and I had become too much 
accustomed to regard as our own the de- 
posit which had been entrusted to our 
fidelity ; we have been punished for it. 
At last, we have done our duty, and now 
all is ended. She whom you have called 
your friend, will be, hereafter, only a 
poor peasant girl, as her mother was be- 
fore her.” 

The most subtle observer would have 
supposed that Mile. Blanche was experi- 
encing the keenest emotion. One would 
have sworn that it was only by intense 
effort that she succeeded in restraining 
her tears — that they were even trembling 
behind her long lashes. 

The truth was, that she was thinking 
only of discovering, upon Martial's face, 
some indication of his feelings. But now 
that he was on guard, his features might 
have been marble for any sign of emotion 
they betrayed. 

So she continued : 

“I should utter an untruth if I said that 
I have not suffered on account of this 
sudden change. But I have courage ; I 
shall learn how to submit. I shall, I 
hope, have strength to forget, for I must 
forget ! The remembrances of past feli- 
city would render my present misery in- 
tolerable.” 

Mile, de Courtornieu suddenly folded 
up the letter. 

“You have heard it, monsieur,” said 
she. “Can you understand such pride as 
that?” And they accuse us, daughter's of 
the nobility, of being proud!” 

Martial made no response. He felt 
that his altered voice would betray him. 
How much more would he have been 
moved, if he had been allowed to read 
the concluding lines. 

“One must live, my dear Blanche,” 
added Marie-Anne, “and I feel no false 
shame in asking you to aid me. I sew 
very nicely, as you know, and I could 
earn my livelihood by embroidery if I 
knew more people. I will call to-day at 
Courtornieu to ask you to give me a list 
of ladies to whom I can present myself 
on your recommendation.” 

But Mile, de Courtornieu had taken 
good care not to allude to the touching 
request. She had read the letter to Mar- 
tial as a test. She had not succeeded ; so 
much the worse. She rose and accepted 
his arm to return to the house. 

She seemed to have forgotten her 


153 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


friend, nnd she was chatting gayly. 
When they approached the chateau, she 
was interrupted by a sound of voices 
raised to the highest pitch. 

It was the address to the king which 
was agitating the council convened in M. 
de Courtornieu’s cabinet. 

Mile. Blanche paused. 

“I am tresspassing upon your kindness, 
monsieur. I am boring you with my silly 
chat when you should undoubtedly be up 
there.” 

“Certainly not,” he replied, laughing. 
“What should I do there? The role of 
men of action does not begin until the 
orators have concluded.” 

lie spoke so energetically, in spite of 
his jesting tone, that Mile, de Courtornieu 
was fascinated. She saw before her, she 
believed, a man who, as her father had 
said, would rise to the highest position in 
the political world. 

Unfortunately, her admiration was dis- 
turbed by a ring of the great bell that al- 
ways announces visitors. 

She trembled, let go her hold on Mar- 
tial’s arm, and said, very earnestly : 

“Ah, no matter. I wish very much to 
know what is going on up there. If I ask 
my father, he will laugh at my curiosity, 
while you, monsieur, if you are present 
at the conference, you will tell me all.” 

A wish thus expressed was a command. 
The marquis bowed and obeyed. 

“She dismisses me,” he said to himself 
as he ascended the staircase, “nothing 
could be more evident ; and that without 
much ceremony. Why the devil does 
she wish to get rid of me?” 

Why? Because a single peal of the 
bell announced a visitor for Mile. 
Blanche ; because she was expecting a 
visit from her friend; and because she 
wished at any cost to prevent a meet- 
ing between Martial and Marie-Anne. 

She did not love him, and yet an agony 
of jealousy was torturing her. Such 
was her nature. 

Her presentiments were realized. It 
was, indeed, Mademoiselle Lacheneur 
who was awaiting her in the drawing- 
room. 

The poor girl was paler than usual; 
but nothing in her manner betrayed the 
frightful anguish she had suffered during 
the past two or three days. 

And her voice, in asking from her for- 
mer friend a list of “customers,” was as 
calm and as natural as in other days, 
when she was asking her to come and 
spend an afternoon at Sairmeuse. 

So, when the two girls embraced each 
other, their roles were reversed. 

It was Marie-Anne who had been 
crushed by misfortune; it was Mile. 
Blanche who wept. 

But, while writing a list of the names 
of persons in the neighborhood with 
whom she was acquainted, Mile, de Cour- 


tornieu did not neglect this favorable 
opportunity for verifying the suspicions 
which had been aroused by Martial’s 
momentary agitation. 

“It is inconceivable^’ she remarked to 
her friend, “that the Duke de Sairmeuse 
should allow you to be reduced to such 
an extremity.” 

Marie-Anne’s nature was so royal, that 
she did not wish an unjust accusation to 
rest even upon the man who had treated 
her father so cruelly. 

“The duke is not to blame,” she re- 
plied gently; “he offered us a very con- 
siderable sum, this morning, through his 
son.” 

Mile. Blanche started as if a viper had 
stung her. 

“So you have seen the marquis, Marie- 
Anne?” 

“Yes.” 

“Has he been to your house?” 

“He was going there, when he met me 
in the grove on the waste.” 

She blushed as she spoke ; she turned 
crimson at the thought of Martial’s im- 
pertinent gallantry. 

This girl who had just emerged from a 
convent was terribly experienced; but 
she misunderstood the cause of Marie- 
Anne’s confusion. She could dissimulate, 
however, and when Marie-Anne went 
away, Mile. Blanche , embraced her with 
every sign of the most ardent affection. 
But she was almost suffocated with rage. 

“What!” she thought; “they have met 
but once, and yet they are so strongly 
impressed with each other! Do they 
love each other already?” 


CHAPTER LVII. 

If Martial had faithfully reported to 
Mademoiselle Blanche all that he heard 
in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s cabinet, 
he would probably have astonished her a 
little. 

He, himself, if he had sincerely con- 
fessed his impressions and his reflections, 
would have been obliged to admit that he 
was greatly amazed. 

But this unfortunate man, who, in days 
to come, would be compelled to reproach 
himself bitterly, for the excess of his 
fanaticism refused to confess this truth 
even to himself. His life was to be spent 
in defending prejudices which his own 
reason condemned. 

Forced by Mademoiselle Blanche’s will 
into the midst of a discussion, he was 
really disgusted with the ridiculous and 
intense greediness of M. de Courtornieu’s 
noble guests. 

Decorations, fortune, honors, power — 
they desired everything. 

They were satisfied that their pure de- 
votion deserved the most munificent re- 


157 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


wards. It was only the most modest 
who declared that he would be content 
with the epaulettes of a lieutenant-gen- 
eral. 

Many were the recriminations, stinging 
words, and bitter reproaches. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu, who acted 
as president of the council, was nearly 
exhausted with exclaiming : 

“Be calm, gentlemen, be calm! A lit- 
tle moderation, if you please !” 

“All these men are mad,” thought 
Martial, with difficulty restraining an in- 
tense desire to laugh; “they are insane 
enough to be placed in a mad-house.” 

But he was not obliged to render a re- 
port of the seance. The deliberations 
were soon fortunately interrupted by a 
summons to dinner. 

Mademoiselle Blanche, when the young 
marquis rejoined her, quite forgot to 
question him about the doings of the 
council. 

In fact, w T hat did the hopes and plans 
of these people matter to her. 

She cared very little about them or 
about the people themselves, since they 
were below her father in rank, and most 
of them were not as rich. 

An absorbing thought — a thought of 
her future, ancl of her happiness, filled 
her mind to the exclusion of all other 
subjects. 

The few moments that she had passed 
alone, after Marie-Anne’s departure, she 
had spent in grave reflection. 

Martial’s mind and person pleased her. 
In him were combined all the qualifica- 
tions which any ambitious woman would 
desire in a husband — and she decided 
that he should be her husband. Prob- 
ably she would not have arrived at this 
conclusion so quickly, had it not been for 
the feeling of jealousy aroused in her 
heart. But from the very moment that 
she could believe or suspect that another 
woman w r as likely to dispute the posses- 
sion of Martial with her, she desired 
him. 

From that moment, she was completely 
controlled by one of those strange pas- 
sions in which the heart has no part, but 
which take entire possession of the brain 
and lead to the worst of follies. 

Let the woman whose pulse has never 
quickened its beating under the influence 
of this counterfeit of love, cast the first 
stone. 

That she could be vanquished in this 
struggle for supremacy ; that there could 
be any doubt of the result, were thoughts 
which never once entered the mind of 
Mile. Blanche. 

She had been told so often, it had been 
repeated again and again that the man 
whom she would choose must esteem 
himself fortunate above all others. 

She had seen her father besieged by so 
many suitors for her hand. 


“Besides,” she thought, smiling proud- 
ly, as she surveyed her reflection in the 
large mirrors; “am I not as pretty as 
Marie-Anne?” 

“Far prettier!” murmured the voice of 
vanity; “and you possess what your 
rival does not : birth, wit, the genius of co- 
quetry !” 

She did, indeed, possess sufficient clev- 
erness and patience to assume and to sus- 
tain the character which seemed most 
likely to dazzle and to fascinate Martial. 

As to maintaining this character after 
marriage, if it did not please her to do so, 
that was another matter ! 

The result of all this was that during 
dinner Mile. Blanche exercised all her 
powers of fascination upon the young 
marquis. 

She was so evidently desirous of pleas- 
ing him that several of the guests re- 
marked it. 

Some were even shocked by such a 
breach of conventionality. But Blanche 
de Courtornieu could do as she chose; 
she was well aware of that. Was she 
not the richest heiress for miles and miles 
around? No slander can tarnish 
the brilliancy of a fortune of more 
than a million in hard cash. 

“Do you know that those two young 
people will have a joint income of be- 
tween seven and eight hundred thousand 
francs!” said one old viscount to Ins 
neighbor. • 

Martial yielded unresistingly to the 
charm of his position. 

How could he suspect unworthy mo- 
tives in a young girl whose eyes were so 
pure, whose laugh rung out with the 
crystalline clearness of childhood ! 

Involuntarily he compared her with 
the grave and thoughtful Marie-Anne, 
and his imagination floated from one to 
the other, inflamed by the strangeness of 
the contrast. 

He occupied a seat beside Mile. Blanche 
at table ; and they chatted gayly, amusing 
themselves at the expense of the other 
guests, who were again conversing upon 
political matters, and whose enthusiasm 
waxed warmer and warmer as course 
succeeded course. 

Champagne was served with the dessert ; 
and the company drank to the allies 
whose victorious bayonets had forced a 
passage for the king to return to Paris ; 
they drank to the English, to the Prus- 
sians, and to the Russians whose horses 
were trampling our crops under foot. 

The name of d’Escorval heard above 
the clink of the glasses, suddenly aroused 
Martial from his dream of enchantment. 

An old gentleman had just risen, and 
proposed that active measures should be 
taken to rid the neighborhood of the 
Baron d'Escorval. 

“The presence of such a man dishonors 
our country,” said he, “he is a frantic 


158 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Jacobin, and admitted to be dangerous, 
since M. Fouche, has him upon his list of 
suspected persons ; and he is even now 
under the surveillance of the police.” 

This discourse could not have failed to 
arouse intense anxiety in M. d'Escorval’s 
breast had he seen the ferocity expressed 
on almost every face. 

Still no one spoke : hesitation could be 
read in every eye. 

Martial, too, had turned so white that 
Mile. Blanche remarked his pallor and 
thought he was ill. 

It fact, a terrible struggle was going 
on in the soul of the young marquis ; a 
conflict between his honor and passion. 

Had he not longed only a few hours 
before, to find some way of driving 
Maurice from the country? 

Ah, well! the opportunity he so ar- 
dently desired now presented itself. It 
was impossible to imagine a better one. 
If the proposed step was taken, the Baron 
d’Escorval and his family would be forced 
to leave France forever ! 

The company hesitated; Maurice saw 
it, and felt that a single word from him, 
for or against, would decide the matter. 

After a few hours of frightful uncer- 
tainty, honor triumphed. 

He rose and declared that the proposed 
measure was bad — impolitic. 

“I. d’Escorval,” he remarked, “is one 
of those men who diffuse around them a 
perfume of honesty a»d justice. Have 
the good sense to respect the considera- 
tion which is justly his.” 

As he had foreseen, his words decided 
the matter. The cold and haughty man- 
ner which he knew so well how to assume, 
his few but incisive words, produced a 
great effect. 

“It would evidently be a great mis- 
take !” was the general cry. 

Martial reseated himself ; Mademoiselle 
Blanche leaned towards him. 

“You have done well,” she murmured ; 
“you know how to defend your friends.,’ 

“M. d’Escorval is not my friend,” re- 
plied Martial, in a voice which revealed 
the struggle through which he had 
passed. “The injustice of the proposed 
measure incensed me, that is all.” 

Mademoiselle de Courtornieu was not 
to be deceived by an explanation like 
this. Still she added : 

“Then your conduct is all the more 
grand, monsieur.” 

But such was not the opinion of the 
Duke de Sairmeuse. On returning to the 
chateau some hours later, he reproached 
his son for his intervention. 

“Why the devil did you meddle with 
the matter?” inquired the duke. “I 
would not have liked to take upon mysejf 
the odium of the proposition, but since it 
had been made ” 

“I was anxious to prevent such an act 
of useless folly 1” 


“Useless folly ! Zounds! marquis, you 
carry matters "with a high hand. Do 

you think that this d d baron adores 

you? What would you say if you heard 
that he w r as conspiring against us?” 

“I should answer with a shrug of the 
shoulders.” 

“You would! Very well; do me the 
favor to question Chupin.” 


CHAPTER LVm. 

It was only two weeks since the Duke 
de Sairmeuse had returned to France ; he 
had not yet had time to shake the dust of 
exile from his feet, and already his im- 
agination saw enemies on every side. 

He had been at Sairmeuse only two 
days, and yet he unhesitatingly accepted 
the venomous reports which Chupin 
poured into his ears. 

The suspicions which he was endeavor- 
ing to make Martial share were cruelly 
unjust. 

At the moment when the duke accused 
the baron of conspiring against the house 
of Sairmeuse, that unfortunate man was 
weeping at the bedside of his son, who 
was, he believed, at the point of death. 

Maurice was indeed dangerously ill. 

His excessively nervous organization 
had succumbed before the rude assaults 
of destiny. 

When, in obedience to M. Lacheneur’s 
imperative order, he left the grove on 
the Reche, he lost the power of reflecting 
calmly and deliberately upon the situa- 
tion. 

Marie-Anne’s incomprehensible obstin- 
acy, the insults he had received from the 
marquis, and Lacheneur’s feigned anger 
were mingled in inextricable confusion, 
forming one immense, intolerable mis- 
fortune, too crushing for his powers of 
resistance. 

The peasants who met him on his home- 
ward way were struck by his singular 
demeanor, and felt convinced that some 
great catastrophe had just befallen the 
house of the Baron d’Escorval. 

Some bowed; others spoke to him, but 
he did not see or hear them. 

Force of habit — that physical memory 
which mounts guard when the mind is 
far away — brought him back to his home. 

His features were so distorted with 
suffering that Mine. d’Escorval, on seeing 
him, was seized with a most sinister pre- 
sentiment, and dared not address him. 

He spoke first. 

“All is over!” he said hoarsely, “but 
do not be worried, mother ; I have some 
courage, as you shall see.” 

He did, in fact, seat himself at the 
table with a resolute air. He ate even 
more than usual ; and his father noticed, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


159 


without alluding to it, that he drank much 
more wine than, usual. 

He was very pale, his eyes glittered, 
his gestures were excited, and his voice 
was husky. He talked a great deal, and 
even jested. 

“Why will he not weep,” thought 
Mme. d’Escorval; “then I should not be 
so much alarmed, and I could try to com- 
fort him.” 

This was Maurice’s last effort. When 
dinner was over he went to his room, and 
when his mother, who had gone again 
and again to listen at his door, finally 
decided to enter his chamber, she found 
him lying upon the bed, muttering in- 
coherently. 

She approached him. He did not ap- 
pear to recognize or even to see her. 
She spoke to him. He did not seem to 
hear. His face was scarlet, his lips were 
parched. She took his hand; it was 
burning ; and still he was shivering, and 
his teeth were chattering as if with cold. 

A mist swam before the eyes of the 
poor woman ; she feared she was about 
to faint ; but, summoning all her strength, 
she conquered her weakness and drag- 
ging herself to the staircase, she cried: 

“Help ! help ! My son is dying 1” 

With a bound M. d’Escorval reached 
his son’s chamber, looked at him and 
dashed out again, summoned a servant, 
and ordered him to gallop to Montaignac 
and bring a physician without a moment’s 
delay. 

There was, indeed, a doctor at Sair- 
meuse, but he was the most stupid of 
men — a former surgeon in the army, who 
had been dismissed for incompetency. 
The peasants shunned.him as they would 
the plague ; and in case of sickness al- 
ways sent for the cure. M. d’Escorval 
followed their example, knowing that 
the physician from Montaignac could not 
arrive until nearly morning. 

Abbe Midon had never frequented the 
medical schools, but since he had been a 
priest the poor so often asked advice of 
him that he applied himself to the study 
of medicine, and, aided by experience, he 
had acquired a knowledge of the art 
which would have won him a diploma 
from the faculty anywhere. 

At whatever hour of the day or night 
parishioners came to ask his assistance, 
he was always ready — his only answer : 
“Let us go at once.” 

And when the people of the neighbor- 
hood met him on the road with his little 
box of medicine slung over his shoulder, 
they took off their hats respectfully and 
stood aside to let him pass. Those who 
did not respect the priest honored the 
man. 

For M. d’Escorval, above all others, 
Abbe Midon would make haste. The 
baron was his friend ; and a terrible ap- 
prehension seized him when he saw Mme. 


d’Escorval at the gate watching for him. 
By the way in which she rushed to meet 
him, he thought she was about to an- 
nounce some irreparable misfortune. 
But, no — she took his hand, and, without 
uttering a word, she led him to her son’s 
chamber. 

Tiie condition of the poor youth was 
really very critical ; the abbe perceived 
this at a glance, but it was not hopeless. 

“We will get him out of this,” he said 
with a smile that re-awakened hope. 

And with the coolness of an old prac- 
titioner, he bled him freely, and ordered 
applications of ice to his head. 

In a moment all the household were 
busied in fulfilling the cure's orders. He 
took advantage of the opportunity to 
draw the baron aside in the embrasure of 
a window. 

“What has happened?” he asked. 

“A disappointment in love,” M. d’Es- 
corval replied, with a despairing gesture. 
“M. Lacheneur has refused the hand of 
his daughter, which I asked in behalf of 
my son. Maurice was to have seen Marie- 
Anne to-day. What passed between them 
I do not know. The result you see.” 

The baroness re-entered the room, and 
the two men said no more A truly fun- 
ereal silence pervaded the apartment, 
broken only by the moans of Maurice. 

His excitement instead of abating had 
increased in violence. Delirium peopled 
his brain \yith phantoms ; and the name 
of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse, 
and Chanlouineau dropped so incoher- 
ently from his lips that it was impossible 
to read his thoughts. 

How long that night seemed to M. 
d’Escorval and his wife, those only know 
who have counted each second beside the 
sick bed of some loved one. 

Certainly their confidence in the com- 
panion in their vigil was great; but he 
was not a regular physician like the 
other, the one whose coming they 
awaited. 

Just as the light of the morning made 
the candles turn pale, they heard the fu- 
rious gallop of a horse, and soon the doc- 
tor from Montaignac entered. 

He examined Maurice carefully, and 
after a short conference with the priest : 

“I see no immediate danger,” he de- 
clared. “All that can be done has been 
done. The malady must be allowed to 
take its course. I will return.” 

He did return the next day and many 
days after, for it was not until a week 
had passed that Maurice was declared 
out of danger. 

Then he confided to his father all that 
had taken place in the grove on the 
Reche. The slightest detail of the scene 
had engraved itself indelibly upon his 
memory. When the recital was ended : 

“Are you quite sure,” asked his father, 
“that you correctly understood Marie- 


160 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Anne’s reply? Did she tell you that if 
her father gave his consent to your mar- 
riage, she would refuse her s? 

“•Those were her very words.” 

“And still she loves you?” 

“I am sure of it.” 

“You were not mistaken in M. Lache- 
neur’s tone when he said to you : ‘Go, 
you little wretch ! do you wish to render 
all my precautions useless?’ ” 

“No.” 

M. d’Escorval sat for a moment in si 
lence. 

“This passes comprehension,” he mur- 
mured at last. 

And so low that his son could not hear 
him, he added : 

“I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; this 
mystery must be explained.” 


CHAPTER LIX. 

The cottage where M. Lacheneur had 
taken refuge was situated on a hill over- 
looking the water. 

It was, as he had said, a small and 
humble dwelling, but it was rather less 
miserable than the abodes of most of the 
peasants of the district. 

It -was only one siory high, but it was 
divided into three rooms, and the roof 
was covered with thatch. 

In front was a tiny garden, in which a 
few fruit trees, some withered cabbages, 
and a vine which covered the cottage to 
the roof, managed to find subsistence. 

This garden was a mere nothing, but 
even this slight conquest over the steril- 
ity of the soil had cost Lacheneur’s de- 
ceased aunt almost unlimited courage 
and patience. 

For more than twenty years the poor 
woman had never, for a single day, failed 
to throw upon her garden three or four 
basketfuls of richer soil, which she was 
obliged to bring more than half a league. 

It had been more than a year since she 
died; but the little pathway which her 
patient feet had worn in the performance 
of this daily task was still distinctly vis- 
ible. 

This was the path which M. d’Escorval, 
faithful to his resolution, took the fol- 
lowing day, in the hope of wresting 
from Marie-Anne's father the secret of 
his inexplicable conduct. 

He was so engrossed in his own 
thoughts that he failed to notice the over- 
powering heat as he climbed the rough 
hillside in the full glare of the noonday 
sun. 

When he reached the summit, however, 
he paused to take breath ; and while wip- 
ing the perspiration from his brow, he 
turned to look back on the road which he 
had traversed. 


It was the first time he had visited 
the spot, and he was surprised at the ex- 
tent of the landscape which stretched be- 
fore him. 

From this point, which is the most ele- 
evated in the surrounding country, one 
can survey the entire valley of the Oiselle, 
and discern, in the distance, the redoubt- 
able citadel of Montaignac, built upon an 
almost inaccessible rock. 

This last circumstance, which the baron 
was afterwards doomed to recall in the 
midst of the most terrible scenes, did not 
strike him then. Lacheneur's house ab- 
sorbed all his attention. 

His imagination pictured vividly the 
sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, 
only two days before, had relinquished 
the splendors of the Chateau de Sair- 
meuse to repair to this wretched abode. 

He rapped at the door of the cottage. 

“Come in!” said a voice. 

The baron lifted the latch and entered. 

The room was small, with whitewashed 
walls, but with no other floor than the 
ground ; no ceiling save the thatch that 
formed the roof. 

A bed, a table and two wooden benches 
constituted the entire furniture. 

Seated upon a stool, near the tiny win- 
dow, sat Marie-Anne, busily at work upon 
a piece of embroidery. 

She had abandoned her former mode of 
dress, and her costume was that worn by 
the peasant girls. 

When M. d’Escorval entered she rose, 
and for a moment they remained silently 
standing, face to face, she apparently 
calm, he visibly agitated. 

He was looking at Marie-Anne; and 
she seemed to him transfigured. She 
was much paler and considerably thin- 
ner ; but her beauty had a strange and 
touching charm — the sublime radiance of 
heroic resignation and of duty nobly ful- 
filled. 

Still, remembering his son, he was as- 
tonished to see this tranquillity. 

“You do not ask me for news of 
Maurice.” he said, reproachfully. 

“I had news of him this morning, mon- 
sieur, as I have had every day. I know 
that he is improving; and that, since 
day before yesterday, he has been al- 
lowed to take a little nourishment.” 

“You have not forgotten him, then?” 

She trembled; a faint blush suffused 
throat and forehead, but it was in a calm 
voice that she replied : 

“Maurice knows that it would be im- 
possible for me to forget him, even if I 
wished to do so.” 

“And yet you have told him that you 
approve your father’s decision !” 

“I told him so, monsieur; and I shall 
have the courage to repeat it.” 

“But you have made Maurice wretched, 
unhappy, child; he has almost died.” 

She raised her head proudly, sought 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


1G1 


M. d'Escorval's eyes, and when she had 
found them : 

‘‘Look at me, monsieur. Do you 
think that I, too, do not suffer?” 

M. d'Eseorval was abashed for a mo- 
ment; but recovering himself, he took 
Marie -Anne's hand, and pressing it affec- 
tionately, he said : 

"So Maurice loves you; you love him ; 
you suffer; he has nearly died, and still 
you reject him !” 

‘•ft must be so, monsieur.” 

‘‘You say this, my dear child — you say 
this, and you undoubtedly believe it. 
But I, who have sought to discover the 
necessity of this immense sacrifice, have 
failed to find it. Explain to me, then, 
why this must be so, Marie-Anne. Who 
knows but you are frightened by chi- 
meras which my experience can scatter 
with a breath? Ilavf you no confidence 
in me? Am I not an old friend? It may 
be that your father, in his despair, has 
adopted extreme resolutions. Speak, let 
us combat them together. Lacheneur 
knows how devotedly 1 am attached to 
him. I will speak to him ; he will listen 
to me .” 

“I can tell you nothing, monsieur.” 

“What ! you are so cruel as to remain 
inflexible when a father entreats you on 
his knees — a father who says to you : 
‘Marie-Anne, you hold in your hands the 
happiness, the life, the reason of my 
son ’ ” 

Tears glittered in Marie-Anne's eyes, 
but she drew away her hand. 

“Ah ! it is j^ou who are cruel, mon- 
sieur; it is you who are without pity. 
Do you not see what I suffer, and that it 
is impossible for me to endure further 
torture? No. I have nothing so tell you ; 
there is nothing you can say to my 
father. Why do you seek to impair my 
courage when I require it all to struggle 
against my despair? Maurice must for- 
get me; he must never see me again. 
This is fate; and he must not fight 
against it. It would be folly. We are 
parted forever. Beseech Maurice to 
leave the country, and if he refuses, you, 
who are his father, must command him 
to do so. And you, too, monsieur, in 
Heaven's name flee from us. We shall 
bring misfortune upon you. Never re- 
turn" here; our house is accursed. The 
fate that overshadows us will ruin you 
also.” 

She spoke almost wildly. Her voice 
was so loud that it penetiated an adjoin- 
ing room. 

The communicating door opened, and 
M. Lacheneur appeared upon the thresh- 
old. 

At the sight of M. d'Eseorval he ut- 
tered an oath. But there was more sor- 
row and anxiety than anger in his 
manner, as he said : 

“You, monsieur, you here!” 


The consternation into which Marie- 
Anne's words had thrown M. d'Eseorval 
was so intense that it was with great 
difficulty he stammered out a response. 

“You have abandoned us entirely; I 
was anxious about you. Have you for- 
gotten our old friendship? I come to 
you ” 

The brow of the former master of 
Sairmeuse remained overcast. 

“Why did you not inform me of the 
honor that the baron had done me, 
Marie-Anne?'’ he said sternly. 

She tried to speak, but could not ; and 
it was the baron who replied : 

“Why, I have but just come, my dear 
friend.” 

M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first 
at his daughter, then at the baron. 

“What did they say to each other 
while they were alone?” he was evident- 
ly wondering. 

But, however great may have been 
his disquietude, he seemed to master it ; 
and it was with his old-time aff ibility of. 
manner that he invited M. d'Eseorval to 
follow him into the adjoining room. 

“It is my reception-room and my cab- 
inet combined," he said, smiling. 

This room, which was much larger 
than the first, was as scantily furnished ; 
but it contained several piles of small 
books and an infinite number of tiny 
packages.” 

Two men were engaged in arranging 
and sorting these articles. 

One was Clianlouineau. 

M. d'Eseorval did not remember that 
he had ever seen the other, who was a 
young man. 

“This is my son, Jean, monsieur,” said 
Lacheneur. “He has changed since you 
last saw him ten years ago.” 

* It was true. It had been, at least, ten 
years since the baron had seen Lache- 
neur' s son. 

How time flies! He had left him a 
boy ; he found him a man. 

Jean was just twenty; but his hag- 
gard features and his precocious beard 
made him appear much older. 

He was tall and well formed, and his 
face indicated more than average intel- 
ligence. 

Still he did not impress one favorably. 
His restless eyes were always invading 
yours ; and his smile betrayed an unusual 
degree of shrewdness, amounting almost 
to cunning. 

As his father presented him, he bowed 
profoundly ; but he was very evidently 
out of temper. 

M. Lacheneur resumed : 

“Having no longer the means to main- 
tain Jean in Paris, I have made him re- 
turn. My ruin will, perhaps, be a bles- 
sing to him. The air of great cities is 
not good for the son of a peasant. Fools 
that we are, we send them there to 


162 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


teach them to rise above their fathers. 
Rut they do nothing of the kind. They 
think only of degrading themselves.” 

“Father.” interrupted the young man ; 
“father, wait, at least, until we are 
alone !” 

“M. d’Escorval is not a stranger.” 

Chanlouineau evidently sided with the 
son. since he made repeated signs to M. 
Lacheneur to he silent. 

Either he did not see them, or he pre- 
tended not to see them, for he contin- 
ued : 

“I must have wearied you, monsieur, 
by telling you again and again: ‘I am 
pleased with my son. lie has a com- 
mendable ambition ; he is working faith- 
fully ; he will succeed.’ Ah ! I was a 
poor, foolish father! The friend who 
carried Jean the order to return has en- 
lightened me, to my sorrow. This model 
young man you see here left the gaming- 
house only to run to public balls. lie 
was in love wifch a wretched little ballet 
girl in some low theatre ; and to please 
this creature, he also went upon , the 
stage, with his face painted red and 
white.” 

“To appear upon the stage is not a 
crime.” 

“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s 
father and to affect virtues which one 
does not possess ! Have I ever refused 
you money? No. Notwithstanding that, 
you have contracted debts everywhere, 
and you owe at least twenty thousand 
francs?” 

Jean hung his head ; he was evidently 
angry, but lie feared his father. 

“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated 
M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight 
ago; now I have nothing. I can hope 
to obtain this sum only through the gen- 
erosity of the Duke de Sairmeuse and his 
son.” 

These words from Lacheneur’s lips 
astonished the baron. 

Lacheneur perceived it, and it was with 
every appearance of sincerity and good 
faith that he resumed : 

“Does what I say surprise you? I un- 
derstand why. My anger at first made 
me give utterance to all sorts of absurd 
threats. But 1 am calm now, and I real- 
ize my injustice. TV' hat could I expect 
the duke to do? To make me a present 
of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque, 
I confess, but that is his way ; at heart 
he is the best of men.” 

“Have you seen him again?” 

“No; but I have seen his son. I have 
even been with him to the chateau to 
designate the articles which I desire to 
keep. Oh! he refused me nothing. 
Everything was placed at my disposal — 
everything. I selected what I wished — 
furniture, clothing, linen. It is all to be 
brought here; and I shall be quite a : 
grand seigneur I 


“Why not seek another house? This 
?? 

“This pleases me, monsieur. Its situ- 
ation suits me perfectly.” 

In fact, why should not the Sairmeuse 
have regretted their odious conduct? 
Was it impossible that Lacheneur. in spite 
of his indignation, should conclude to 
accept honorable separation? Such were 
M. d’Escorval’s reflections. 

“To say that the marquis has been kind 
is spying too little,” continued Lacheneur. 
•‘He has shown us the most delicate at- 
tentions. For example, having noticed 
how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of 
her flowers, he has declared that he is 
going to send her plants to stock our 
small garden, and that they shall be, re- 
newed every month.” 

Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur 
overdid his part. This last remark was 
too much ; it awakened a sinister suspi- 
cion in M. d'Escorval's mind. 

“Good God!” he thought, “does this 
wretched man meditate some crime?” 

He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his 
anxiety increased. On hearing the names 
of the marquis and of Marie-Anne, the 
robust farmer had turned livid. 

“It is decided,” said Lacheneur, with 
an air of the utmost satisfaction, “that 
they will give me the ten thousand francs 
bequeathed to me by Mile. Armande. 
Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum 
as I consider a just recompense for my 
services. And that is not all : they have 
offered me the position of manager at 
Sairmeuse ; and I was to be allowed to 
occupy the gamekeeper’s cottage, where 
I lived so long. But on reflection I re- 
fused this offer. After having enjoyed 
for so long a time a fortune which did 
not belong to me, I am anxious to amass 
a fortune of my own.” 

“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire 
what you intend to do?” . 

“Not the least in the world. I am 
going to turn pedler.” 

M. d’Escorval could not believe his 
ears. 

“Pedler?” he repeated. 

“Yes, monsieur. Look, there is my 
pack in that corner.” 

“But this is absurd” exclaimed M. 
d’Escorval. “People, can scarcely earn 
their daily bread in this way !” 

“You are wrong, monsieur. I have 
considered the subject carefully; the 
profits are thirty per cent. And besides, 
there will be three of us to sell goods, 
for I shall confide one pack to my son, 
and another to Chanlouineau.” 

“What! Chanlouineau?” 

“He has become my partner in the en- 
terprise.” 

“And his farm — who will take care of 
that?” 

“He will employ day laborers.” 

I And then, as if wishing to make M. 




MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


163 


d’Eseorval understand that his visit had 
lasted quite long' enough, Lacheneur be- 
gan arranging tlie little packages which 
were destined • to fill the pack of the 
traveling merchant. 

But the baron was not to be gotten rid 
of so easily, now that his suspicions had 
become almost a certainty. 

“I must speak with you,” he said, 
brusquely. 

M. Lacheneur turned. 

”1 am very busy,” he replied, with a 
very evident reluctance. 

“1 ask only five minutes. But if you 
have not the time to spare to-day, I will 
return to-morrow — day after to-morrow — 
and every day until I can see you in pri- 
vate.” 

Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be 
impossible to escape this interview, so. 
with the gesture of a man who resigns 
himself to a necessity, addressing his son 
and Chanlouineau. he said : 

“Go outside for a few moments.” 

They obeyed, and as soon as the door 
had closed behind them, Lacheneur said : 

“I know very well, monsieur, the argu- 
ments you intend to advance; and the 
reason of your coming. You come to ask 
me again for Marie- Anne. I know that 
my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. 
Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the 
thought ; but my refusal is none the less 
irrevocable. There is no power in the 
world capable of changing my resolution. 
Do not ask my motives ; I shall not re- 
veal them ; but rest assured that they are 
sufficient.” 

“Are we not your friends?” 

“You, monsieur!” exclaimed Lache- 
neur, in tones of the most lively affection, 
“you ! Ah ! jmu know it well ! You are 
the best, the only friends, I have here be- 
low. I should be the basest and the most 
miserable of men if I did not guard the 
recollection of all your kindness until my 
eyes close in death. Yes, you are my 
friends, yes, I am devoted to you — and it 
is for that very reason, that I answer : no, 
no, never!” 

There could no longer be any doubt* 
M. d'Escorval seized Lacheneur* s hands, 
and almost crushing them in his grasp: 

“Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, 
hoarsely, “what do you intend to do? 
Of what terrible vengeance are you 
dreaming?” 

“I swear to you ” 

“Oh! do not swear. You cannot de- 
ceive a man of my age _ and of my ex- 
perience. I divine your intentions — you 
hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally 
th in ever.” 

UJ 

“Yes, you; and if you pretend to for- 
get it, it is only that they may forget it. 
These people have offended you too 
cruelly not to fear you; you understand 
this, and you are doing ail in your power 


to reassure them. You accept their ad- 
vances — you kneel before them — why? 
Because they will be more completely in 
your power when you have lulled their 
suspicions to rest, and then you can 
strike them more surely ” 

He paused; the communicating door 
opened, and Marie-Anne appeared upon 
the threshold. 

“Father,” said she, “here is the Mar- 
quis de Sairmeuse.” 

This name, which Marie-Anne uttered 
in a voice of such perfect composure, in 
the midst of this excited discussion, pos- 
sessed such a powerful significance, that 
M. d’Escorval stood as if petrified. 

“lie dares to come here !” he thought. 
“How can it be that he does not fear the 
walls will fall and crush him?” 

M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance 
at his daughter. He suspected her of a 
ruse which would force him to reveal his 
secret. For a second, the most furious 
passion contracted his features. 

But, by a prodigious effort of will, he 
succeeded in regaining his composure. 
He sprang to the door, pushed Marie- 
Anne aside, and leaning out, he said : 

“Deign to excuse me, monsieur, if I 
take the liberty of asking you to wait a 
moment; l am just finishing some busi- 
ness, and I will be with you in a mo- 
ment.” 

Neither agitation nor anger could be 
detected in his voice ; but, rather, a re- 
spectful deference, and a feeling of pro- 
found gratitude. 

Having said this, he closed the door 
and turned to M. d’Escorval. 

The baron, still standing with folded 
arms, had witnessed this scene with the 
air of a man who distrusts the evidence 
of his own senses ; and yet he understood 
the meaning of it only too well. 

“So this young man comes here?” he 
said to Lacheneur. 

“Almost every day — not at this hour, 
usually, but a trifle later.” 

“And you receive him? you welcome 
him?” 

“Certainly, monsieur, How can I be 
insensible to the honor he confers upon 
me? Moreover, we have subjects of mu- 
tual interest to discuss. We are now oc- 
cupied in legalizing the restitution of 
Sairmeuse. 1 can, also, give him much 
useful information, and many hints re- 
garding the management of the prop- 
erty.” 

••And do you expect to make me, your 
old friend, believe that a man of your 
superior intelligence is deceived by the 
excuses the marquis makes for these fre- 
quent visits? Look me in the eye, and 
then tell me, if you dare, that you believe 
these visits are addressed to you!” 

Lacheneur’s eye did not waver. 

“To whom else could they be ad- 
dressed !” he inquired. 


164 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


This obstinate serenity disappointed the 
baron’s expectations. He could not have 
received a heavier blow. 

“Take care, Lacheneur,” he said, stern- 
ly. “Think of the situation in which 
you place your daughter, between Chan- 
louineau, who wishes to make her his 
wife, and M. de Sairmeuse, who desires 
to make her ” 

“Who desires to make her his mistress 
— is that what you mean? Oh, say the 
word. But what does that matter? I 
am sure of Marie-Anne.” 

M. d’Escorval shuddered. 

“In other words,” said he, in bitter in- 
dignation, “you make your daughter's 
honor and reputation your stake in the 
game } r ou are playing.” 

This was too much. Lacheneur could 
restrain his furious passion no longer. 

“Well, yes !” he exclaimed, with a 
frightful oath ; “yes. j r ou have spoken 
the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will 
be, the instrument of my plans. A man 
situated as I am is free from the con- 
siderations that restrain other men. 
Fortune, friends, life, honor — I have been 
forced to sacrifice all. Perish my daugh- 
ter’s virtue — perish my daughter herself 
— what do they matter, if I can but suc- 
ceed?” 

He was terrible in his fanaticism; and 
in his mad excitement he clinched his 
hands as if he were threatening some in- 
visible enemy ; his eyes were wild and 
blood-shot. 

The baron seized him by the coat as if 
to prevent his escape. 

“You admit it, then?” he said. “You 
wish to revenge yourself on the Sair- 
meuse family, and you have made Chan- 
louineau your accomplice?” 

But Lacheneur with a sudden move- 
ment, freed himself. 

“I admit nothing,” he replied. “And 
yet I wish to reassure you ” 

He raised his hand as if to take an oath, 
and in a solemn voice, he said : 

“Before God, who hears my words, by 
all that I hold sacred in this world, by 
the memory of my sainted wife who lies 
beneath the sod, I swear that I am plot- 
ting nothing against the Sairmeuse fam- 
ily ; that I had no thought of touching a 
hair of their heads. 1 use them only be- 
cause they are absolutely indispensable 
to me. They will aid me without injur- 
ing themselves.” 

Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth. 
His hearer felt it; si ill he pretended to 
doubt. lie thought by retaining his own 
self-possession, and exciting the anger of 
this unfortunate man still more, he might, 
perhaps, discover his real intentions. So 
it was with an air of suspicion that he 
said : 

“How can one believe this assurance 
after the avowal you have just made?” 


Lacheneur saw the snare ; he regained 
his self-possession as if by magic. 

“So be it, monsieur, refuse to believe 
me. But you will wring from me only 
one more word on this subject. I have 
said too much already. I know that you 
are guided solely by friendship for me ; 
my gratitude is great, but I cannot reply 
to your question. The events of the past 
few days have dug a deep abj^ss between 
you and me. Do not endeavor to pass it. 
Why should we ever meet again? I must 
say to you, what I said only yesterday to 
Abbe Midon. If you are my friend, you 
will never come here again — never — by 
night or by day, or under any pretext 
whatever. Even if they tell you that I 
am dying, do not come. This house is 
fatal. And if you meet me, turn away ; 
shun me as you would a pestilence whose 
touch is deadly !” 

The baron was silent. This was in 
substance what Marie-Anne had said to 
him, only under another form. 

“But there is still a wiser course that 
you might pursue. Everything here is 
certain to augment the sorrow and des- 
pair which afflicts your son. There is 
not a path, nor a tree, nor a flower which 
does not cruelly remind him of his former 
happiness. Leave this place; take him 
with you, and go far away.” 

“Ah ! how can I do this? Fouche has 
virtually imprisoned me here!” 

“All the more reason why you should 
listen to my advice. You were a friend 
of the emperor, hence you are regarded 
with suspicion; you are surrounded by 
spies. Your enemies are watching for an 
opportunity to ruin you. The slightest 
pretext would suffice to throw you into 
prison — a letter, a word, an act capable 
of being misconstrued. The frontier is 
not far off; go, and wait in a foreign land 
for happier times.” 

“That is something which I will not 
do,” said M. d’Escorval, proudly. 

His words and accent showed the folly 
of further discussion. Lacheneur under- 
stood this only too well, and seemed to 
despair. 

“Ah! you are like Abbe Midon,” he 
said, sadly; “you will not believe. Who 
knows how much your coming here this 
morning will cost you? It is said that no 
one can escape his destiny. But if some 
day the hand of the executioner is laid 
upon your shoulder, remember that I 
warned you, and do not curse me.” 

lie paused, and seeing that even this 
sinister prophecy produced no impression 
upon the baron, he pressed his hand as if 
to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened 
the door to admit the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse. 

Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meet- 
ing M. d’Escorval ; but he nevertheless 
bowed with studied politeness, and began 
a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


165 


telling him that the articles he had se- 
lected at the chateau, were on their way. 

M. d Escorval could do no more. To 
speak with Marie- Anne was impossible : 
Chanlouineau and Jean would not let him 
go out of their sight. 

He reluctantly departed, and oppressed 
by cruel forebodings, he descended the 
hill which he had climbed an hour before 
"o full of hope. 

What should he say to Maurice? 

He had reached the little grove of pines 
/hen a hurried footstep behind him made 
I m turn. 

The Marquis de Sairmeuse was follow- 
ing him, and motioned him to stop. The 
baron paused, greatly surprised ; Martial, 
with that air of ingenuousness which he 
knew so well how to assume, and in an 
almost brusque tone, said : 

U I hope, monsieur, that you will ex- 
cuse me for having followed you. when 
you hear what I have to say. I am not 
of your party ; I loathe what you adore ; 
but I have none of the passion nor the 
malice of your enemies. For this reason 
I tell you that if I were in your place I 
would take a journey. The frontier* is 
but a few miles away: a good horse, a 
short gallop, and you have crossed it. A 
word to the wise is — salvation !” 

And without waiting for any response, 
he turned and retraced his steps. 

M. d'Escorval was amazed and con- 
founded. 

“One might suppose there was a con- 
spiracy to drive me away !” he murmured. 
“But I have good reason to distrust the 
disinterestedness of this young man.” 

Martial was already far off. Had he 
been less preoccupied, he would have 
perceived two figures in the wood. Mile. 
Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the 
inevitable Aunt Medea, had come to play 
the spy. 


CHAPTER LX. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu idolized 
his daughter. Every one spoke of that 
as an incostestable and uneontested fact. 

When persons spoke to him of his 
daughter, they always said: 

“ You, who adore your daughter -” 

And when he spoke of himself, he said: 

“I who adore Blanche.” 

The truth was, that he would have 
given a good deal, even a third of his for- 
tune, to be rid of her. 

This smiling young girl, who seemed 
such an artless child, had gained an abso- 
lute control over him. She forced him 
to bow like a reed to her every caprice — 
and Heaven knows she had enough of 
them ! 

In the hope of making his escape, he 
had tlnown her Aunt Medea; but in lessl 


than three months that poor woman had 
been completely subjugated, and did not 
serve to divert his daughter's attention 
from him, even for a moment. 

Sometimes the marquis revolted, but 
nine times out of ten he paid dearly for 
his attempts at rebellion. When Mile. 
Blanche turned her cold and steel-like 
eyes upon him with a certain peculiar ex- 
pression, his courage evaporated. Her 
weapon was irony ; and knowing his weak 
points she struck with wonderful preci- 
sion. 

It is easy to understand how devoutly he 
prayed and hoped that some honest young 
man, by speedily marrving his daughter, 
would free him from this cruel bondage. 

But where was he to find this libera- 
tor? 

The marquis had announced every- 
where, his intention of bestowing a dow- 
ry of a million upon his daughter. Of 
course this had brought a host of eager 
suitors, not only from the immediate 
neighborhood, but from parts remote. 

But, unfortunately, though many of 
them would have suited M. de Courtor- 
ni u well enough, not a single one had 
been so fortunate as to please Mile. 
Blanche. 

Her father presented some suitor ; she 
received him graciously, lavished all her 
charms upon him ; but as soon as his 
back was turned, she disappointed all 
her father’s hopes by rejecting him. 

“He is too small,” she said, “or too 
large. His rank is not equal to ours. I 
think him stupid. He is a fool — his nose 
is so ugly.” 

From these summary decisions there 
was no appeal. Arguments and persua- 
sions were useless. The condemned man 
no longer existed. 

Still, as this view of aspirants to her 
hand amused her, she encouraged her 
father in his efforts. He was beginning 
to despair, when fate dropped the Duke 
de Sairmeuse and son at His very door. 
When he saw Martial, he had a presenti- 
ment of his approaching release. 

“He will be my son-in-law,” he 
thought. 

The marquis believed it best to strike 
the iron while it was hot. So, the very 
next day, he broached the subject to the 
duke. 

His overtures were favorably received. 

Possessed with the desire of transform- 
ing Sairmeuse into a little principality, 
the duke could not fail to be delighted 
with an alliance with one of the oldest 
and wealthiest families in the neighbor- 
hood. 

The conference was short. 

“Martial, my son. possesses, in his own 
right, an income of at least six hundred 
thousand francs.” said the duke. 

“I shall give my daughter at least — 
lyes, at least fifteen hundred thousand 


1GG 


MONSIEUR LECOO. 


francs as her marriage portion,” declared 
the marquis. 

“Ilis majesty is favorably disposed to- 
wards me. I can obtain any important 
diplomatic position for Martial.” 

“In case of trouble, I have many friends 
among the opposition.” 

The treaty was thus concluded; but 
M. de Courtornieu took good care not to 
speak of it to his daughter. If he told 
her how much he desired the match, she 
would be sure to oppose it. Non-inter- 
ference seemed advisable. 

The correctness of his judgment was 
fully demonstrated. One morning Mile. 
Blanche made her appearance in his cab- 
inet. 

“Your capricious daughter has decided, 
papa, that she would like to become the 
Marquise de Sairmeuse,” said she, per- 
emptorily. 

It cost M. de Courtornieu quite an effort 
to conceal his delight ; but he feared if 
she discovered his satisfaction that the 
game would be lost. 

He presented several objections ; they 
were quickly disposed of; and, at last, 
he ventured to say : 

“Then the marriage is half decided; 
one of the parties consents. It only re- 
mains to ascertain if ” 

“The other will consent,” declared the 
vain heiress. 

And, in fact, for several days Mile. 
Blanche had been applying herself as- 
sidously and quite successfully to the 
work of fascination which was to bring 
Martial to her feet. 

After having made an advance, with 
studied frankness and simplicity, sure of 
the effect she had produced, she now pro- 
ceeded to beat a retreat — a manoeuvre so 
simple that it was almost sure to succeed. 

Until no\v she had been gay, spirituelle 
and coquettish; gradually, she became 
quiet and reserved. The giddy school- 
girl had given place to the shrinking 
virgin. 

With what perfection she played her 
part in the divine comedy of first love ! 
Martial could not fail to be fascinated by 
the modest artlessness and chaste fears 
of the heart which seemed to be waking 
for him. When he appeared, Mile. 
Blanche blushed, and was silent. At a 
word from him she became confused, 
lie could only occasionally catch a 
glimpse of her beautiful eyes through 
the shelter of their long lashes. 

Who had taught her this refinement of 
coquetry? They say that the convent is 
an excellent teacher. 

But what she had not learned was that 
the most deter often become the dupes 
of their own imagination ; and that great 
comediennes generally conclude by shed- 
ding real tears. 

She lea ned this one evening, when a 
laughing remark made by the Duke de 


Sairmeuse, revealed the fact that Martial 
was in the habit of going to Lacheneur’s 
house every day. 

What she experienced now could not 
be compared with the jealousy, or rather 
anger, which had previously agitated 
her. 

This was an acute, bitter and intoler- 
able sorrow. Before, she had been able 
to retain her composure; now, it was im- 
possible. 

That she might not betray herself, sin 
left the drawing-room precipitately an 1 
hastened to her own room, where she 
burst into a fit of passionate sobbing. 

“Can it be that he does not love me?” 
she murmured. 

This thought made her cold with terror. 
For the first time this haughty heiress 
distrusted her own power. 

She reflected that Martial’s position 
was so exalted that he could afford to 
despise rank; that he was so rich that 
wealth had no attractions for him ; and 
that she herself might not be so pretty 
and so charming as flatterers had led her 
to suppose. 

Still Martial’s conduct during the past 
week — and Heaven knows with what 
fidelity her memory recalled each inci- 
dent! — was well calculated to reassure 
her. 

He had not, it is true, formally declared 
himself ; but it was evident that he was 
paying his addresses to her. His manner 
was that of the most respectful, but the 
most infatuated of lovers. 

Her reflections were interrupted by the 
entrance of her maid, bringing a large 
bouquet of roses which had just been 
sent by Martial. 

She took the flowers, and while arrang- 
ing them in a large Japanese vase, she 
bedewed them with the first real sin- 
cere tears she had shed since her entrance 
into the world. 

She was so pale and sad. so unlike her- 
self when she appeared the next morning 
at breakfast, that Aunt Medea was 
alarmed. 

Mile. Blanche had prepared an excuse, 
and she uttered it in such sweet tones 
that the poor lady was as much amazed 
as if she had witnessed a miracle. 

M. de Courtornieu was no less aston- 
ished. 

“Of what new freak is this doleful face 
the preface?” he wondered. 

He was still more alarmed when, imme- 
diately after breakfast, his daughter 
asked a moment's conversation with him. 

She followed him into his study, and 
as soon as they were alone, without giv- 
ing her father time to seat himself. Mile. 
Blanche entreated him to tell her all that 
had passed between the Duke de Sair- 
meuse and himself, and asked if Martial 
had been informed of the intended alli- 
ance, and what he had replied. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


1G7 


Iler voice was meek, her eyes tearful; 
her manner indicated the most intense 
anxiety. 

The marquis was delighted. 

‘*My willful daughter has been playing 
with tire,” he thought, stroking his chin 
caressingly; u and upon my word, she 
has burned herself.” 

“Yesterday, my child,” he replied, 
“the Duke de Sairmeuse formally de- 
manded your hand on behalf of his son ; 
your consent is all that is lacking. So 
rest easy, my beautiful, lovelorn damsel 
— you will be a duchess.” 

She hid her face in her hands to con- 
ceal her blushes. 

“You know my decision, father,” she 
faltered, in an almost inaudible voice — 
“we must make haste.” 

He started back, thinking he had not 
heard her words aright. 

“Make haste !” he repeated. 

“Yes, father. I have fears.” 

“What fears, in Heaven's name?” 

“I wiil tell you when everything is 
settled,” she replied, as she made her es- 
cape from the room. 

She did not doubt the reports which 
had reached her ears, of Martial's fre- 
quent visits to Marie-Anne, but she 
wished to see for herself. 

So, as soon as she left her father, she 
obliged Aunt Medea to dress herself, and 
without vouchsafing a single word of 
explanation, took her with her to the 
Keche, and stationed herself where she 
could command a view of M. Lacheneur’s 
house. 

It chanced to be the very day on 
which M. d'Escorval came to ask an ex- 
planation from his friend. She saw him 
come ; then, after a little, Martial made 
his appearance. 

She had not been mistaken — now she 
could go home satisfied. 

But no. She resolved to count the 
seconds which Martial passed with Marie- 
Anne. 

M. d'Escorval did not remain long; 
she saw Martial hasten out after him, 
and speak to him. 

She breathed again. His visit had not 
lasted a half hour, and doubtless he was 
going away. Not at all. After a mo- 
ment's conversation with the baron, he 
returned to the house. 

“What are we doing here?” demanded 
Aunt Medea. 

“Let me alone !” replied Mile. Blanche, 
angrily; “hold your tongue!” 

She heard the sound of wheels, the 
tramp of horses’ hoofs, blows of the 
whip, and oaths. 

The wagons bearing the furniture and 
clothing belonging to M. Lacheneur were 
coming. 

This noise Martial must have heard 
within the house, for he came out, and! 


after him came M. Lacheneur, Jean, 
Chanlouineau and Marie-Anne. 

Every one was soon busy in unloading 
the wagons, and positively, from the 
movements of the young Marquis de Sair- 
meuse, one would have sworn that he 
was giving orders; he came and went, 
hurrying to and fro, talking to everybody, 
not even disdaining to lend a hand occa- 
sionally. 

“He, a nobleman, makes himself at 
home in that wretched hovel!” Mile. 
Blanche said to herself. “How horrible ! 
Ah ! this dangerous creature will do with 
him whatever she desires.” 

All this was nothing compared with 
what was to come. A third wagon 
appeared, drawn by a single horse, and 
laden with pots of flow r ers and shrubs. 

This sight drew a cry of rage from 
Mile, de Courtornieu which must have 
carried terror to Aunt Medea’s heart. 

“Flowers !” she exclaimed, in a voice 
hoarse with passion. “He sends flowers 
to her, as he does to me— only he sends 
me a bouquet, while for her lie despoils 
the gardens of Sairmeuse.” 

“What are you saying about flowers?” 
inquired the impoverished relative. 

Mile. Blanche replied that she had not 
made the slightest allusion to flowers. 
She was suffocating — and yet she com- 
pelled herself to remain there three mor- 
tal hours — all the time that was required 
to unload the furniture. 

The wagons had been gone some time, 
when Martial again appeared upon the 
threshold, 

Marie-Anne had accompanied him to 
the door, and they were talking together. 
It seemed impossible for him to make 
up his mind to depart. 

He did so, at last, however ; but he left 
slowdy and with evident reluctance. 
Marie-Anne, remaining in the door, gave 
him a friendly gesture of farewell. 

“I wish to speak to this creature!” 
exclaimed Mile. Blanche. “Come, aunt, 
at once!” 

Had Marie-Anne, at that moment, been 
within the reach of Mile, de Courtornieu’s 
voice, she would certainly have learned 
the secret of her former friend's anger 
and hatred. 

But fate willed it otherwise. At least 
three hundred yards of rough ground 
separated the place where Mile. Blanche 
had stationed herself, from the Lache- 
neur cottage. 

It required a moment to cross this 
space; and that was time enough to 
change all the girl's intentions. 

She had not traversed a quarter of the 
distance before she bitterly regretted 
having shown herself at all. But to re- 
trace her steps now w r as impossible, for 
Marie-Anne, who was still standing upon 
the threshold, had seen her approaching. 

There remained barely time to regain 


1G8 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


her self-control, and to compose her fea- 
tures. She profited by it. 

She had her sweetest smile upon her 
lips as she greeted Marie-Anne. Still she 
was embarrassed ; she did not know what 
excuse to give for her visit, and to gain 
time she pretended to be quite out of 
breath. 

“Ah! it is not very easy to reach you. 
dear Marie-Anne,” she said, at last; “you 
live upon the summit of a veritable 
mountain.” 

Mile. Lacheneur said not a word. She 
was greatly surprised, and she did not 
attempt to conceal the fact. 

“Aunt Medea pretended to know the 
road,” continued Mile. Blanche; “but 
she led me astray; did you not, aunt?” 

As usual, the impecunious relative as- 
sented, and her niece resumed : 

“But at last we are here. I could not, 
my dearest, resign myself to hearing 
nothing from you, especially after all 
your misfortunes. What have you been 
doing? Did my recommendation procure 
for you the work you desired?” 

Marie-Anne could not fail to be deeply 
touched by this kindly interest on the 
part of her former friend. So, with per- 
fect frankness, and without any false 
shame, she confessed that all her efforts 
had been fruitless. It had even seemed 
to her that several ladies had taken 
pleasure in treating her unkindly. 

But Mile. Blanche was not listening. 
A few steps from her stood the flowers 
brought from Sairmeuse ; and their per- 
fume rekindled her anger. 

“At least,” she interrupted, “you have 
here what will almost make you forget 
the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who sent 
you these beautiful flowers?” 

Marie-Anne turned crimson. She did 
not speak for a moment, but at last she 
replied, or rather stammered : 

“It is — an attention from the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse.” 

“So she confesses it!” thought Mile, 
de Courtornieu, amazed at what she was 
pleased to consider an outrageous piece 
of impudence. 

But she succeeded in concealing her 
rage beneath a loud burst of laughter; 
and it was in a tone of raillery that she 
said : 

“Take care my dear friend ; I am going 
to call you to account. It is from my 
fiance that you are accepting flowers.” 

“What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse!” 

“Has demanded the hand of your 
friend. Yes, my darling; and my father 
has given it to him. It is a secret as yet ; 
but I see no danger in confiding in your 
friendship.” 

She believed that she had inflicted a 
mortal wounds upon Marie-Anne’s heart; 
but though she watched her closely, she 
failed to detect the slightest trace of 
emotion upon her face. 


“What dissimulation!” she thought. 
Then aloud, and with affected gayety, 
she resumed : 

“And the country folks will see two 
weddings at about the same time, since 
you, also, are going to be married, my 
dear.” 

“I!” 

“Yes, you — you little deceiver! Ev- 
erybody knows that you are engaged to 
a young man in the neighborhood, named 
— wait — I know — Chanloui neau. ’ ’ 

Thus the report that annoyed Marie- 
Anne so much reached her from every 
side. 

“Everybody is for once mistaken,” 
said she, energetically. “I shall never 
be that young man’s wife.” 

“But why? They speak well of him, 
personally, and he is quite rich.” 

“Because,” faltered Marie-Anne; “be- 
cause ” 

Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled 
upon her lips ; but unfortunately she did 
not utter it, prevented by a strange ex- 
pression on the face of her friend. How 
often one's destiny depends upon a cir- 
cumstance apparently as trivial as this ! 

“Impudent, worthless creature!” 
thought Mile. Blanche. 

Then, in cold and sneering tones, that 
betrayed her hatred unmistakably, she 
said : 

“You are wrong, believe me, to refuse 
this offer. This Chanlouineau will, at all 
events, save you from the painful neces- 
sity of laboring with your own hands, 
and of going from door to door in quest 
of work which is refused you. But, no 
matter; 7” — she laid great stress upon 
this word — 7 will be more generous than 
your old acquaintances. I have a great 
deal of embroidery to be done. 1 shall 
send it to you by my maid, and you two 
may agree upon the price. We must 
go. Good-bye, my dear. Come, Aunt 
Medea.” 

She departed, leaving Marie-Anne pet- 
rified with surprise, sorrow, and indigna- 
tion. 

Although less experienced than Mile. 
Blanche, she comprehended that this 
strange visit concealed some n^stery — 
but what? 

For more than a minute she stood 
motionless, gazing after her departing 
guests, then she started suddenly as a 
hand was laid gently upon her shoulder. 

She trembled, and turning quickly, 
found herself face to face with her 
father. 

Laeheneur’s face was whiter than his 
linen, and a sinister light glittered in his 
eye. 

“I was there,’? said he, pointing to the 
door, “and I heard all.” 

“Father!” 

“What! would you try to defend her 
after she came here to crush you with 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


1C9 


her insolent good fortune — after she 
overwhelmed you with her ironical pity 
and with her scorn ! I tell you they are 
all like this — these girls, whose heads 
have been turned by flattery, and who 
believe that in their veins flows a different 
blood from ours. But patience! The 
day of reckoning is near at hand !” 

Those whom he threatened would have 
shuddered had they seen him at that mo- 
ment, so terrible was the rage revealed 
by his accent, so formidable did he ap- 
pear. 

“And you, my beloved daughter, my 
poor Marie-Anne, you did not understand 
the insults she heaped upon you. You 
are wondering why she should have 
treated you with such disdain. Ah, well ! 
I will tell you : she imagines that the 
Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.” 

Marie-Anne tottered beneath the terri- 
ble blow, and a nervous spasm shook her 
from head to foot. 

Can this be possible?” she exclaimed. 
“Great God! what shame! what humil- 
iation !” 

“And why should this astonish you?” 
said Lacheneur, coldly. “Have you not 
expected this ever since the day when 
you, my devoted daughter, consented, for 
the sake of my plans, to submit to the at- 
tentions of this marquis, whom you 
loathe as much as I despise?” 

“But Maurice! Maurice will despise 
me! I can bear anything, \^es, every- 
thing but that.” 

M. Laucheneur made no reply. Marie- 
Anne’s despair was heart-breaking; he 
felt that he could not bear to witness it, 
that it w r ould shake his resolution, and he 
re-entered the house. 

But his penetration was not at fault. 
While waiting to find a revenge which 
would be worthy of her, Mile. Blanche 
armed herself with a weapon of which 
jealousy and hatred so often avail them- 
selves — calumny. 

Two or three abominable stories which 
she concocted, and which she forced 
Aunt Medea to circulate everywhere, did 
not produce the desired effect. 

Marie-Anne’s reputation was. of course, 
ruined by them ; but Martial's visits, in- 
stead of ceasing, became longer and more 
frequent. Dissatisfied with his progress, 
and fearful that he w^as being duped, he 
even w atched the house. 

So it happened that, one evening, when 
he w r as quite sure that Lacheneur, his 
son, and Chanlouineau were absent, Mar- 
tial saw r a man leave the house and hasten 
across the fields. 

He rushed after him, but the man es- 
caped him. 

He believed. how r ever, that he recog- 
nized Maurice d’Escorval. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

« 

After his son’s confession, M. d’Es- 
corval was prudent enough to make no 
allusion to the hopes he, himself, enter- 
tained. 

“My poor Maurice,” he thought, “is 
heart-broken, but resigned. It is better 
for him to remain without hope than to 
be exposed to the danger of another dis- 
appointment.” 

But passion is not always blind. What 
the baron concealed, Maurice divined; 
and he clung to this faint hope as tena- 
ciously as a drowning man clings to the 
plank which is his only hope of salva- 
tion. 

If he asked his parents no questions it 
was only because he w T as convinced that 
they would not tell him the truth. 

But he watched all that went on in the 
house with that subtleness of penetration 
which fever so often imparts. 

Not one of his father's movements es- 
caped his vigilant eye and ear. 

Consequently he heard him put on his 
boots, ask for his hat, and select a cane 
from among those standing in the vesti- 
bule. He also heard the outer gate grate 
upon its hinges. 

“My father is going out,” he said, to 
himself. 

And weak as he was, he succeeded in 
dragging himself to the window in time 
to satisfy himself of the truth of his con- 
jectures. 

“If my father is going out,” he thought, 
“it can only be to visit M. Lacheneur — • 
then he has not relinquished all hope.” 

An arm-chair was standing near by ; he 
sank into it, intending to watch for his 
father’s return; by doing so, he might 
know his destiny a few moments sooner. 

Three long hours passed before the 
baron returned. 

By his father’s dejected manner he 
plainly saw that all hope was lost. He 
was sure of it; as sure as the criminal 
who reads the fatal verdict in the solemn 
face of the judge. 

He had need of all his energy to regain 
his couch. For a moment he felt that he 
was dying. 

But he w r as ashamed of this weakness, 
w hich he judged umvorthy of him. He 
determined to know w r hat had passed — to 
know the details. 

He rang, and told the servant that 
he wished to speak to his father. M. 
d’Escorval promptly made his appear- 
ance. 

“Well?” cried Maurice. 

M. d'Escorval felt that denial was use- 
less. 

“Lacheneur is deaf to my remon- 
strances and to my entreaties.” he re- 
plied, sadly. “Nothing remains for you 


170 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


but to submit, my son. I shall not tell 
you that time will assuage the sorrow 
that now seems insupportable — you 
would not believe me. But I do say to 
you, that you are a man, and that you 
must prove your courage. I say even 
more: fight against thoughts of Marie- 
Anne as a traveler on the verge of a pre- 
cipice fights against the thought of ver- 
tigo.” 

“Have you seen Marie- Anne, father? 
Have you spoken to her?” 

“I found her even more inflexible than 
Laelieneur.” 

“They reject me*, and they receive 
Chanlouineau, perhaps.” 

“Chanlouineau is living there.” 

“My God! And Martial de Sair- 
meuse?” 

“He is their familiar guest. I saw him 
there.” 

That each of these responses fell upon 
Maurice like a thunderbolt, was only too 
evident. 

But M. d’Escorval had armed himself 
with the impassable courage of a surgeon 
who does not relax his hold on his instru- 
ments because the patient groans and 
writhes in agony. 

M*. d’Escorval wished to extinguish the 
last ray of hope in the heart of his son. 

“It is evident that M. Laelieneur has 
lost his reason!” exclaimed Maurice. 

The baron shook his head despond- 
ently. 

“I thought so myself, at first,” he mur- 
mured. 

“But what does he say in justification 
of his conduct? He must say some- 
thing.” 

“Nothing: he refuses any explana- 
tion.” 

“And you, father, with all your knowl- 
edge of human nature, with all your 
wide experience, have not been able to 
fathom his intentions?” 

“I have my suspicions,” M. d’Escorval 
replied; “but only suspicions. It is pos- 
sible that Lacheneur, listening to the 
voice of hatred, is dreaming of a terri- 
ble revenge. Who knows if he does not 
think of organizing some conspiracy, of 
which he is to be the leader? These 
suppositions would explain everything. 
Chanlouineau is his aider and abettor; 
and he pretends to be reconciled to the 
Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to get 
information through him ” 

The blood had returned to the pale 
cheeks of Maurice. 

“Such a conspiracy would not explain 
M. Lacheneur's obstinate rejection of my 
suit.” 

“Alas ! yes, my poor boy. It is through 
Marie-Anne that Lacheneur exerts such 
an influence over Chanlouineau and the 
Marquis de Sairmeuse. If she became 
your wife to-day, they would desert him 
to-morrow. Then, too, it is precisely be- 


cause he loves us that he is determined 
we shall not be mixed up in an enterprise 
the success of which is extreme^ doubt- 
ful. But these are mere conjectures.” 

“Then, I see that it is necessary to sub- 
mit, to be resigned ; forget, I cannot,” 
faltered Maurice. 

He said this because he wished to reas- 
sure his father ; but he thought exactly 
the opposite. 

“If Lacheneur is organizing a conspi- 
racy,” he said, to himself, “he must need 
assistance. Why should I not oiler mine? 
If I aid him in his preparations, if I 
share his hopes and his dangers, it will 
be impossible for him to refuse me the 
hand of his daughter. Whatever he may 
desire to undertake, I can surely be of 
greater assistance than Chanlouineau.” 

From that moment Maurice thought 
only of doing everything possible to 
hasten his convalescence. This was so 
rapid, so extraordinarily rapid, as to as- 
tonish Abbe Mi don, who had taken the 
place of the physician from Montaignac. 

“I never would have believed that 
Maurice could have been thus consoled,” 
said Madame d'Escorval, delighted to see 
her son’s wonderful improvement in 
health and spirits. 

But the baron made no response. He 
regarded this almost miraculous recove- 
ry with distrust, he was assailed by a 
vague suspicion of the truth. 

He questioned his son, but skillfully 
as he did it, he could draw nothing 
from him. 

Maurice had decided to say nothing to 
his parents. What good would it do to 
trouble them? Besides, he feared remon- 
strance and opposition and he was re- 
solved to carry out his plans, even if he 
was compelled to leave the paternal roof. 

In the second week of September the 
abbe declared that Maurice might resume 
his ordinary life, and that, as the 
weather was pleasant, it would be well 
for him to spend much of his time in the 
open air. 

In his delight, Maurice embraced the 
worthy priest.” 

“What happiness !” he exclaimed : “then 
I can hunt once more !” 

He really cared but little for the chase; 
but he deemed it expedient to pretend a 
great passion for it, since it would fur- 
nish him with an excuse for frequent and 
protracted absences. 

Never had he felt more happy than on 
the morning when, with his gun upon his 
shoulder, he crossed the Oiselle and 
started for the abode of M. Lacheneur. 
On reaching the little grove on the 
Reche, he paused for a moment at a 
place which commanded a view of the 
cottage. While he stood there, he saw 
Jean Lacheneur and Chanlouineau leave 
the house, each laden with a pedler's 
pack. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


171 


\ 


Maurice was therefore sure that M. 
Lacheneur and. Marie-Anne were alone 
in the house. 

Pie hastened to the cottage and entered 
without stopping to rap. 

Marie-Anne and her father were kneel- 
ing on the hearth, upon which a huge 
fire was blazing. 

On hearing the door open, they turned ; 
and at the sight of Maurice, they both 
sprang up, blushed and confused. 

“What brings you here?” they ex- 
claimed in the same breath. 

Under other circumstances, Maurice 
d'Escorval would have been dismayed by 
such a hostile greeting, but now he 
scarcely noticed it. 

“You have no business to return here 
against . my wishes, and after what I 
have said to you. Monsieur d’Escorval,” 
said Lacheneur, rudely. 

Maurice smiled, he was perfectlj* cool, 
and not a detail of the scene before him 
had escaped his notice. If he had felt 
any doubts before, they were now dissi- 
pated. He saw upon the fire a large ket- 
tle of melted lead, and several bullet- 
molds stood on the hearth, beside the an- 
dirons. 

“If I venture to present myself at your 
house, monsieur,” said Maurice gravely 
and impressively, “it is because I know 
all. I have discovered your revengeful 
project. You are looking for men to aid 
you, are you not? Very well! look me 
in the face, in the eyes, and tell me if I 
am not one of those whom a leader is 
glad to enroll among his followers?” 

M. Lacheneur was terribly agitated. 

“I do not know what you mean,” he 
faltered, forgetting his feigned anger; “1 
have no projects.” 

“Would you assert this upon oath? 
why are you casting these bullets? 
You are clumsy conspirators. You 
should lock your door; some one else 
might have entered.” 

And adding example to precept, he 
turned and pushed the bolt. 

“This is only an imprudence,” he con- 
tinued: “but to reject a soldier who 
comes to you voluntarily would be a 
fault for which your associate would 
have a right to call you to account. I 
have no desire, understand me, to force 
myself into your confidence. No, I give 
myself to you blindly, body and soul. 
Whatever your cause may be, I declare 
it mine ; what you wish, I wish ; I adopt 
your plans ; jmur enemies are my ene- 
mies; command, I will obey. I ask only 
one favor, that of fighting, of triumph- 
ing, or of dying by your side.” 

“Oh! refuse, father!” exclaimed 
Marie-Anne, “refuse. To accept this 
offer would be a crime !” 

“A crime! And why, if you please?” 

“Because our cause is not your cause ; 


because its success is doubtful ; because 
dangers surround us on every side.” 

A scornful exclamation from Maurice 
interrupted her. 

“And it is you who think to dissuade 
me by pointing out the dangers that 
threaten you, the dangers that you are 
braving ” 

“Maurice !” 

“So if imminent peril menaced me, in- 
stead of coming to my aid you would de- 
sert me? You would hide yourself, say- 
ing, ‘Let him perish, so that I be saved !’ 
Speak! would you do this?” 

She averted her face and made no re- 
ply. She could not force herself to utter 
an untruth ; and she was unwilling to 
answer : “I would act as you are acting.” 
She waited for her father’s decision. 

“If I should comply with your request, 
Maurice,” said M. Lacheneur, “in less 
than three days you would curse me, and 
ruin us by some outburst of anger. 
You love Marie-Anne. Could you see, 
unmoved, the frightful position in which 
she is placed? Remember, she must not 
discourage the addresses either of Clian- 
louineau or of. the Marquis de Sairmeuse. 
You regard me — Oh! I know as well as 
you do that it is a shameful and odious 
role that I impose upon her — that she is 
compelled to play a part in which she 
will lose a young girl’s most precious 
possession — her reputation.” 

Maurice did not wince. “So be it,” he 
said, calmly. “Marie- Anne’s fate will be 
that of all women who have devoted 
themselves to the political advancement 
of the man whom they love, be he father, 
brother, or lover. She will be slandered, 
insulted, calumniated. What does it mat- 
ter ! She may continue her task. I con- 
sent to it, for I shall never doubt her, and 
I shall know how to hold my peace. If 
we succeed, she shall be my wife, if we 
fail ” 

The gesture which concluded the sen- 
tence said more strongly than any pro- 
testations that he was ready, resigned to 
anything. 

M. Lacheneur was greatly moved. 

“At least give me time for reflection,” 
said he. 

“There is no necessity for further re- 
flection, monsieur.” 

“But you are only a child, Maurice ; 
and your father is my friend.” 

“What of that?” 

“Rash boy! do you not understand 
that by compromising yourself you also 
compromise Baron d’Escorval? You 
think you are risking only your own 
head ; you are endangering your father’s 
life ” 

But Maurice violently interrupted him. 

“There has been too much parleying 
already!” he exclaimed; “there have 
been too many remonstrances. Answer 
me in a word ! Only understand this : if 


172 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


you reject me, I will return to my father's 
house, and with this gun which I hold in 
my hand I will blow out my brains.” 

This was no idle threat. It was evident 
that what he said, that would he do. His 
listeners were so convinced of this, that 
Marie-Anne turned to her father with 
clasped hands and a look of entreaty. 

“You are one of us, then,” said M. La- 
cheneur. sternly ; “but do not forget that 
you forced me to consent by threats ; 
and whatever may happen to you or 
3 r ours, remember that you w r ould have it 
so.” 

But these gloomy w'ords produced no 
impression upon Maurice; he was wild 
with joy. 

“Now,” continued M. Lacheneur, “I 
must tell you my hopes, and acquaint 
you with the cause for which I am labor- 
ing 

“What does that matter to me?” Mau- 
rice exclaimed, gayly ; and springing to- 
ward Marie-Anne, he seized her hand and 
raised it to his lips, crying, with the joy- 
ous laugh of youth : 

“My cause — here it is !” 

Lacheneur turned away. Perhaps he 
recollected that a sacrifice of his pride 
W'as all that w r as necessary to assure the 
happiness of these poor children. 

But if a feeling of remorse entered his 
mind, he drove it away, and with in- 
creased sternness, he said : 

“Still, Monsieur d’Escorval, it is neces- 
sary for you to understand our agree- 
ment.” 

“Make known your conditions, sir.” 

“First, your visits here — after certain 
rumors that I have put in circulation — 
would arouse suspicion. You must come 
here only at night, and then only at 
hours that have been agreed upon in ad- 
vance — never w 7 h< n you are not ex- 
pected.” 

The attitude of Maurice expressed his 
entire consent. 

“Moreover, you must find some w 7 ay to 
cross the river without having recourse 
to the ferryman, who is a dangerous fel- 
low.” 

“We have an old skiff : I will persuade 
my father to have it repaired.” 

“Very well. Will you also promise 
me to avoid the Marquis de Sairmeuse?” 

“I will.” 

“Wait a moment — we must be prepared 
for aujr emergency. It may be that in 
spite of our precautions you will meet 
him here. M. de Sairmeuse is arrogance 
itself: and he hates you. You detest 
him, and you are very hasty. Sw r ear to 
me that if he provokes you, you will 
ignore his insults.” 

“But I should be considered a cow r ard, 
monsieur.” 

“Probably. Will you swear?” 

Maurice hesitated, but an imploring 
look from Marie-Ann decided him. 


“I swear!” he said, gravely. 

“As far as Chanlouineau is concerned, 
it w'ould be better not to let him know of 
our agreement — but I w r ill take care of 
this matter.” 

M. Lacheneur paused and reflected for 
a moment as if striving to discover if he 
had forgotten anything. 

“Nothing remains, Maurice,” he re- 
sumed, “but to give you a last and very 
important piece of advice. Do you know 
my son?” 

“Certainly; we were formerly the best 
of comrades during our vacations.” 

“Very well. When you know my 
secret — for I shall confide it to you with- 
out reserve — bewaire of Jean.” 

“What, sir?” 

“Beware of Jean. I repeat it.” 

And he blushed deeply, as he added : 

“Ah! it is a painful avowal for a 
father ; but I have no confidence in my 
own son. He knows no more in regard 
to my plans than I told him on the day 
of his arrival. I deceive him. because I 
fear he might betray us. Perhaps it 
would be w ise to send him aw r ay ; but in 
that case, what would people say ? Most 
assuredly they would say that I w 7 as very 
avaricious of my own blood, while I w r as 
very ready to risk the lives of others. 
Still I may be mistaken; I may misjudge 
him.” 

He sighed, and added : 

“Beware!” 


CHAPTER LXII. 

So it was realty Maurice d'Escorval 
whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse had seen 
leaving Lacheneur's house. 

Martial was not certain of it, but the 
very possibility made his heart sw r ell 
with anger. 

“What part am I playing here, then?” 
he exclaimed, indignantly. 

He had been so completely blinded 
by passion that he would not have been 
likely to discover the real condition of 
affairs even if no pains had been taken to 
deceive him. 

Lacheneur's formal courtesy and polite- 
ness he regarded as sincere. He believed 
in the studied respect shown him by 
Jean; and the almost servile obsequious- 
ness of Chanlouineau did not surprise him 
in the least. 

And since Marie-Anne welcomed him 
politely, he concluded that his suit w 7 as 
progressing favorably. 

Having himself forgotten, he supposed 
that every one else had ceased to remem- 
ber. 

Moreover, he was of the opinion that 
he had acted wdth great generosity, and 
that he was entitled to the deep grati- 
tude of the Lacheneur family; for M. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


173 


Lacheneur had received the legacy be- 
queathed him by Mile. Armande, and an 
indemnity, besides all the furniture he 
had chosen to take from the chateau, a 
total of at least sixty thousand francs. 

“He must be hard to please, if he is 
not satisfied !” growled the duke, enraged 
at such prodigality, though it did not 
cost him a penny. 

Martial had supposed himself the only 
visitor at the cottage on the Reche ; and 
when he discovered that such was not 
the case, he became furious. 

/‘Am I, then, the dupe of a shameless 
girl?” he thought. 

He was so incensed, that for more than 
a week he did not go to Lacheneur’s 
house. 

His father concluded that his ill humor 
and gloom was caused by some misun- 
derstanding with Marie- Anne; and he 
took advantage of this opportunity to 
gain his son’s consent to an alliance with 
Blanche de Courtornieu. 

A victim to the most cruel doubts and 
fears, Martial, goaded to the last extrem- 
ity, exclaimed : 

“Very well ! I will marry Mademoiselle 
Blanche.” 

The duke did not allow such a good 
resolution to grow cold. 

In less than forty-eight hours the en- 
gagement was made public ; the marriage 
contract was drawn up, and it was an- 
nounced that the wedding would take 
place early in the spring. 

A grand banquet was given at Sair- 
meuse in honor of the betrothal — a ban- 
quet all the more brilliant since there 
were other victories to be celebrated. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse had just re- 
ceived, with his brevet of lieutenant-gen- 
eral, a commission placing him in com- 
mand of the military department of Mon- 
taignac. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu had also 
received an appointment, making him 
provost-martial of the same district. 

Blanche had triumphed. After this 
public betrothal. Martial was bound to 
her. 

For a fortnight, indeed, he scarcely 
left her side, in her society there was a 
charm whose sweetness almost made him 
forget his love for Mnrie-Anne. 

But unfortunately the haughty heiress 
could not resist the temptation to make a 
slighting allusion to Marie- Anne, and to 
the lowliness of the marquis’s former 
tastes. She found an opportunity to say 
that she furnished Marie- Anne with work 
to aid her in earning a living. 

Martial forced himself to smile; hut 
the indignity which Marie-Anne had re- 
ceived aroused his sympathy and indig- 
nation. 

And the next day he went to Lache- 
neur’s house. 

In the warmth of the greeting that 


awaited him there, all his anger vanished, 
all his suspicions evaporated. Marie- 
Anne’s eyes beamed with joy on seeing 
him again ; he noticed it. 

u Oh ! I shall win her yet !” he thought. 

All the household were really delighted 
at his return ; the son of the commander 
of the military forces at Montaignac, 
and the prospective son-in-law of the 
provost-marshal, Martial was a most val- 
uable instrument. 

‘•Through him, we shall have an eye 
and an ear in the enemj^s camp,” said 
Lacheneur. “The Marquis de Sairmeuse 
will be our spy.” 

.He was, for he soon resumed his daily 
visits to the cottage. It was now De- 
cember, and the roads were terrible ; but 
neither rain, snow, nor mud could keep 
Martial from the cottage. 

He made his appearance generally as 
early as ten o’clock, seated himself upon 
a stool in the shadow of a tall fire-place, 
and he and Marie-Anne talked by the 
hour. 

She seemed greatly interested in mat- 
ters at Montaignac, and he told her all 
that he knew in regard to affairs there. 

Sometimes they were alone. 

Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean 
were tramping about the country with 
their merchandise. Business was pros- 
pering so well that M. Lacheneur had 
purchased a horse in order to extend his 
journies. 

But Martial’s conversation was gener- 
ally interrupted by visitors. It was 
really surprising to see how many 
peasants came to the house to speak to 
M. Lacheneur. There was an interminable 
procession of them. And to each of 
these peasants Marie-Anne had some- 
thing to say in private. Then she offered 
each man refreshments — the house 
seemed almost like a common drinking 
saloon. 

But what can daunt the courage of a 
lover? Martial endured all this without 
a murmur. He laughed and jested with 
the comers and goers; he shook hands 
with them; sometimes he even drank 
with them. 

He gave many other proofs of moral 
courage. He offered to assist M. Lache- 
neur in making up his acounts ; and once 
— it happened about the middle of Febru- 
ary — seeing Chanlouineau worrying over 
the composition of a letter, he actually 
offered to act as his amanuensis. 

“The d d letter is not for me, but 

for an uncle of mine who is about to 
marry off his daughter,” said Chanloui- 
neau. 

Martial took a seat at the table, and, at 
Chanlouineau’s dictation, but not without 
many erasures, indited the following 
epistle : 

•‘My Dear Friend — We are at last 
agreed, and the marriage has been de- 


174 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


cided upon. We are now busy with pre- 
parations for the wedding, which will 

take place on . We invite you to 

give us the pleasure of your company. 
We count upon you, and be assured that 
the more friends you bring with you the 
better we shall be pleased.” 

Had Martial seen the smile upon Chan- 
louineau's lips when he requested him to 
leave the date for the wedding a blank, 
he would certainly have suspected that 
lie had been caught in a snare. But he 
was in love. 

‘•Ah! marquis,” remarked his father 
one day, “Chupin tells me you are always 
at Lacheneur's. When will you recover 
from your penchant for that little girl?” 

Martial did not reply. He felt that he 
was at that “little girl’s” mercy. Each 
glance of hers made his heart throb Avild- 
ly. By her side he was a willing captive. 
If she had asked him to make her his 
wife he would not have said no. 

But Marie- Anne had not this ambition. 
All her thoughts, all her wishes were for 
her father’s success. 

Maurice and Marie-Anne had become 
M. Lacheneur’s most intrepid auxiliaries. 
They were looking forward to such a 
magnificent reward. 

Such feverish activity as Maurice dis- 
played ! All day long he hurried from 
hamlet to hamlet, and in the evening, as 
soon as dinner was over, he made his 
escape from the drawing-room, sprang 
into his boat, and hastened to the Reche. 

M. d’Escorval could not fail to remark 
the long and frequent absences of his 
son. He watched him, and soon became 
absolutely certain that Lacheneur had. 
to use the baron’s own expression, se- 
duced him. 

Greatly alarmed, he decided to go and 
see his former friend, and fearing another 
repulse, he begged Abbe Midon to ac- 
company him. 

It was on the fourth of March, at about 
half-past four o’clock, that M. d’Escorval 
and the cure started for the Reche. They 
were so anxious and troubled in mind 
that they scarcely exchanged a dozen 
words as they wended their way onward, 

A strange sight met their eyes as they 
emerged from "the grove on the Reche. 

Night was falling, but it was still light 
enough for them to distinguish objects 
only a short distance from them. 

Before Lacheneur’s house stood a 

f roup of about a dozen persons, and M. 
,acheneur was speaking and gesticulat- 
ing excitedly. 

What was he saying? Neither the 
baron nor the priest could distinguish his 
words, but when he ceased, the most vo- 
ciferous acclamations rent the air. 

Suddenly a match glowed between his 
fingers ; he set fire to a bundle of straw 
and tossed it upon the thatched roof of 
his cottage, crying out in a terrible voice : 


“The die is cast! This will prove to 
you that I shall not draw back !” 

Five minutes later the house was in 
flames. 

In the distance the baron and his com- 
panion saw the windows of the citadel at 
Montaignac illuminated by a red glare, 
and upon every hillside glowed the light 
of other incendiary fires. 

The country was responding to Lache- 
neur's signal. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

Ah ! ambition is a fine thing ! 

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu were past middle- 
age; their lives had been marked by 
many storms and vicissitudes ; they were 
the possessors of millions, and the owners 
of the most sumptuous residences in the 
province. Under these circumstances 
one might have supposed that they would 
desire to end their days in peace and 
quietness. 

It would have been easy for them to 
create a life of happiness by doing good 
to those around them, and by preparirig 
for their last hours a chorus of benedic- 
tions and of regrets. 

But no. They longed to have a hand 
in managing the ship of state ; they were 
not content to be simply passengers. 

And the duke, appointed to the com- 
mand of the military forces, and the 
marquis, made presiding judge of the 
court at Montaignac. were both obliged 
to leave their beautiful homes and take 
up their abode in rather dingy quarters 
in town. 

They did not murmur at the change ; 
their vanity was satisfied. 

Louis XVHI. was on the throne ; their 
prejudices were triumphant; they were 
happy. 

It is true that dissatisfaction was rife 
on every side, but had they not hundreds 
and thousands of allies at hand to sup- 
press it? 

And when wise and thoughtful persons 
spoke of “discontent,” the duke and his 
associates regarded them as visionaries. 

On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke 
was just sitting down to dinner when a 
loud noise was heard in the vestibule. 

He rose — but at that very instant the 
door was flung open and a man entered, 
panting and breathless. 

This man was Chupin, the former 
poacher, whom M. do Sairmeuse had 
elevated to the position of head game- 
keeper. 

It was evident that something extraor- 
dinary had happened. 

“What is it?” inquired the duke. 

“They are coming!” cried Chupin; 
“they are already on the way!” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


175 


“Who? who?” 

By way of response, Chupin handed 
the duke a copy of the letter written by 
Martial under Chanlouineau's dictation. 

M, de Sairmeuse read : 

“My Dear Friend— W e are at last 
agreed, and the marriage is decided. We 
are now busy in preparing for the wad- 
ding, which will take place on the fourth 
of March.” 

The date was no longer blank; but 
still the duke did not comprehend. 

“Well, what of it?” he demanded. 

Chupin tore his hair. 

“They are on the way,” he repeated. 
“I speak of the peasants — they intend to 
take possession of Montaignac, dethrone 
Louis XVIII., bring back the emperor, 
or, at least, the son of the emperor — 
miserable wretches ! they have deceived 
me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did 
not think it was so near at hand.” 

This terrible blow, so entirely unex- 
pected, stupefied the duke for a moment. 

“How many are there?” he demanded. 

“Ah ! how "do I know, monsieur? Two 
thousand, perhaps — perhaps ten thou- 
sand.” 

“All the towns-people are with us.” 

“No, monsieur, no. The rebels have 
accomplices here. All the retired ofiicers 
stand ready to assist them.” 

“Who are the leaders of the move- 
ment?” 

“Lacheneur, Abbe Midon, Chanloui- 
neau, Baron d'Escorval- ” 

“Enough !” cried the duke. 

Now that danger was certain, his cool- 
ness returned ; and his herculean form, a 
trifle bowed by the weight of years, rose 
to its full height. 

He gave the bell-rope a violent pull ; 
a valet appeared. . 

“My uniform,” commanded M. de Sair- 
meuse; “my pistols! Quick!” 

The servant was about to obey, when 
the duke exclaimed : 

“Wait! Let some one take a horse, 
and go and tell my son to come here 
without a moment’s delay. Take one of 
the swiftest horses. The messenger 
ought to go to Sairmeuse and return in 
two hours.” 

Chupin endeavored to attract the duke's 
attention by pulling the skirt of his coat. 
M. de Sairmeuse turned : 

“What is it?” 

The old poacher put his finger on his 
lip, recommending silence, but as soon 
as the valet had left the room, he said : 

“It is useless to send for the marquis?” 

“And why, you fool?” 

“Because, monsieur, because — excuse 
me — I ” 

“Zounds! will you speak, or will you 
not?” 

Chupin regretted that he had gone so 
far. 

“Because the marquis ” 


“Well?” 

“He is engaged in it.” 

The duke overturned the table with a 
terrible blow of his clenched fist. 

“You lie, wretch !” he thundered, with 
the most horrible oaths. 

He was so formidable in his anger that 
the old poacher sprang to the door and 
turned the knob, ready to take flight. 

“May I lose my head if I do not speak 
the truth,” he insisted. “Ah! Lache- 
neur's daughter is a regular sorceress. All 
the gallants of the neighborhood are in 
the ranks; Chanlouineau, young D'Es- 
corval, your son ” 

M. de Sairmeuse was pouring forth a 
torrent of curses upon Marie-Anne when 
his valet re-entered the room. 

He suddenly checked himself, put on 
his uniform, and ordering Chupin to fol- 
low him, hastened from the house. 

He was still hoping that Chupin had 
exaggerated the danger ; but when he 
reached the Place d'Arms, which com- 
manded an extended view of the sur- 
rounding country, his illusions were put 
to flight. 

Signal lights gleamed upon every side. 
Montaignac seemed surrounded by a 
circle of flame. 

“These are the signals,” murmured 
Chupin. “The rebels will be here before 
two o’clock in the morning.” 

The duke made no response but has- 
tened to consult M. de Courtornieu. 

He was striding towards his friend’s 
house when, on hastily turning a corner, 
he saw two men talking in a doorway, and 
on seeing the glittering of the duke’s 
epaulettes, both of them took flight. 

The duke instinctively started in pursuit, 
overtook one man, and seizing him by 
the collar, he asked, sternly : 

“Who are you? What is your name?” 

The man was silent, and his captor 
shook him so roughly that two pistols, 
which had been hidden under his long 
coat, fell to the ground. 

“Ah, brigand!” exclaimed M. de Sair- 
meuse, “so you are one of the conspira- 
tors against the king !” 

Then, without another word, he 
dragged the man to the citadel, gave him 
in charge of the astonished soldiers, and 
again started for M. de Courtornieu’s 
house. 

He expected the marquis would be ter- 
rified; not in the least; he seemed de- 
lighted. 

“At last there comes an opportunity 
for us to display our devotion and our 
zeal — and without danger! We have 
good Avails, strong gates, and three thou- 
jsand soldiers at our command. These 
peasants are fools ! But be grateful for 
[their folly, my dear duke, and run and 
order ouritlie Montaignac chasseurs ” 

But suddenly a cloud overspread his 
face ; he knit his brows, and added : 


176 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“The devil ! I am expecting Blanche 
this evening. She was to leave Courtor- 
nieu after dinner. Heaven grant that she 
may meet with no misfortune on the 
way !” 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu had more time before 
them than the} 7- supposed. 

The rebels were advancing, but not so 
rapidly as Chupin had said. 

Two circumstances, which it was im- 
possible to foresee, disarranged Lache- 
neur’s plans. 

Standing beside his burning house, 
Lacheneur counted the signal fires that 
blazed out in answer to his own. 

Their number corresponded to his ex- 
pectations; he uttered a cry of joy. 

“All our friends keep their word!” he 
exclaimed. “They are ready; they are 
even now on their waj^to the rendezvous. 
Let us start at once, for we must be there 
first !” 

They brought him his horse, and his 
foot was already in the stirrup, when two 
men sprang from the neighboring grove 
and darted towards him. One of them 
seized the horse by the bridle. 

“AbbeMidon!” exclaimed Lacheneur, 
in profound astonishment; “M. d’Eseor- 
val !” 

And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to 
come, he added, in a tone of concentrated 
fury : 

“What do you two men want with 
me?” 

“We wish to prevent the accomplish- 
ment of an act of madness!” exclaimed 
M. d’Escorval. “Hatred has crazed you, 
Lacheneur!” 

“You know nothing of my projects !” 

“Do you think that I do not suspect 
them? You hope to capture Montaig- 
nac ” 

“What does that matter to you?” inter- 
rupted Lachcn ur, violently. 

But M. d'Escorval would not be si- 
lenced. 

He seized the arm of his former friend, 
and in a voice loud enough to be heard 
distinctly by every one present, he con- 
tinued : 

“Foolish man! You have forgotten 
that Montaignac is a fortified city, pro- 
tected by deep moats and high walls! 
You have forgotten that behind these 
fortifications is a garrison commanded by 
a man whose energy and valor are be- 
yond all question— the Duke de Sair- 
meuse.” 

Lacheneur struggled to free himself 
from his friend’s grasp. 

“Everything has been arranged,” he 
replied, “and they are expecting us at 


Montaignac. You would be as sure of 
this as I am myself, if you had seen the 
light gleaming on the windows of the cit- 
adel. And look, you can see it yet. This 
light tells me that two or three hundred 
retired officers will come to open the 
gates of the city for us as soon as we 
make our appearance.” 

“And after that! If you take Mon- 
taignac, what will you do then? Do you 
suppose that the English will give you 
back your Emperor? Is not Napoleon II. 
the prisoner of the Austrians. Have you 
forgotten that the allied sovereigns have 
left one hundred and fifty thousand sol- 
diers within a day’s march of Paris ?” 

Sullen murmurs were heard among 
Lacheneur's followers. 

“But all this is nothing,” continued the 
baron. “The chief danger lies in the fact 
that there are as many traitors as dupes 
in an undertaking of this sort.” 

“Whom do you call dupes, monsieur?” 

“All those who take their illusions for 
realities, as you have done; all those 
who, because they desire anything very 
much, really believe that it will come to 
pass. Do you really suppose that nei- 
ther the Duke de Sairmeuse nor the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu has been warned of 
it?” 

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. 

“Who could have warned them?” 

But his tranquillity was feigned ; the 
look which he cast upon Jean proved it. 

And it was in the coldest possible tone 
that he added : 

“It is probable that at this very hour 
the duke and the marquis are in the 
power of our friends.” 

The cure now attempted to join his ef- 
forts to those of the baron. 

“You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said. 
“You will not remain deaf to the voice 
of reason. You are an honest man; 
think of the frightful responsibility you 
assume ! What ! upon these frail hopes, 
you dare to peril the lives of hundreds of 
brave men ? I tell you that you will not 
succeed ; you will be betrayed ; I am sure 
you will be betrayed !” 

An expression of horror contracted 
Lacheneur' s features. It was evident to 
all that he was deeply moved. 

It is impossible to say what might have 
happened had it not been for the inter- 
vention of Chanlouineau. 

This sturdy peasant came forward, 
brandishing his gun. 

“We are wasting too much time in fool- 
ish prattling,” he exclaimed with a fierce 
oath. 

Lacheneur started as if he had been 
struck by a whip. He rudely freed him- 
self and leaped into the saddle. 

“Forward!” he ordered. 

But the baron and the priest did not 
yet despair; they sprang to the horse's 
head. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


177 


“Lacheneur,” cried the priest, “be- 
ware ! The blood you are about to spill 
will fall upon your head, and upon the 
heads of your children!” 

Appalled by these prophetic words, the 
little band paused. 

Then some one issued from the ranks, 
clad in the costume of a peasant. 

k ' ‘Marie- An ne !” exclaimed theabbeand 
the baron in the same breath. 

“Yes, I,” responded the young girl, re- 
moving the large hat which had partially 
concealed her face ; “I wish to share the 
dangers of those who are dear to me — 
share in their victory or their defeat. Your 
counsel comes too late, gentlemen. Do 
you see those lights on the horizon ? They 
tell us that the people of these communes 
are repairing to the cross-roads at the 
Croix d’Arcy, the general rendezvous. 
Before two o’clock fifteen hundred men 
will be gathered there awaiting my 
father’s commands. Would you have 
him leave these men, whom he has called 
from their peaceful firesides, without a 
leader? Impossible!” 

She evidently shared the madness of 
her lover and father, even if she did not 
share all their hopes. 

“No, there must be no more hesitation, 
no more parleying,” she continued. 
“Prudence now would be the height of 
folly. There is no more danger in a re- 
treat than in an advance. Do not try to 
detain my father, gentlemen ; each mo- 
ment of delay may, perhaps, cost a man’s 
life. And now, my friends, forward !” 

A loud cheer answered her, and the lit- 
tle band descended the hill. 

But M. d’Escorval could not allow his 
own son. whom he saw in the ranks, to 
depart thus. 

“Maurice!” he cried. 

The young man hesitated, but at last 
approached. 

“You will not follow these madmen, 
Maurice?” said the baron. 

“I must follow them, father.” 

“I forbid it.” 

“Alas! father, I cannot obey you. 1 
have promised — I have sworn. I am 
second in command.” 

His voice was sad, but it was deter- 
mined. 

“My son!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; 
“unfortunate child !— it is to certain death 
that you are marching — to certain death.” 

“All the more reason that I should not 
break my word, father.” 

“And your mother, Maurice, the mother 
whom you forget !” 

A tear glistened in the young man’s 
eye. 

“My mother,” he replied, “would rather 
weep for her dead son than keep him 
near her dishonored, and branded with 
the names of coward and traitor. Fare- 
well ! my father.” 

M. d’Escorval appreciated the nobility 

12 


of soul that Maurice displayed in his con- 
duct. He extended his arms, and pressed 
his beloved son convulsively to his heart, 
feeling that it might be for the last time. 

“Farewell!” he faltered, “Farewell!” 

Maurice soon rejoined his comrades, 
whose acclamations were growing fainter 
and fainter in the distance ; but the baron 
stood motionless, overwhelmed with sor- 
row. 

Suddenly he started from his reverie. 

“A single hope remains, Abbe!” he 
cried. 

“Alas !” murmured the priest. 

“Oh — I am not mistaken. Marie-Anne 
just told us the place of rendezvous. By 
running to Escorval and harnessing the 
cabriolet, we might be able to reach the 
Croix d’Arcy before this party arrive 
there. Your voice, which touched Lach- 
eneur, will touch the heart of his accom- 
plices. We will persuade these poor, 
misguided men to return to their homes. 
Come, abbe ; come ouickly !” 

And they departed on the run. 


CHAPTER LNV. 

The clock in the tower of Sairmeuse 
was striking the hour of eight when 
Lacheneur and his little band of follow- 
ers left the Reche. 

An hour later, at the Chateau de Cour- 
tornieu, Mile. Blanche, after tinishing her 
dinner, ordered the carriage to convey 
her to Montaignac. Since her father had 
taken up his abode in town they met only 
on Sunday; on that day either Blanche 
went to Montaignac, or the marquis paid 
a visit to the chateau. 

Hence this proposed journey was a de- 
viation from the regular order of things. 
It was explained, however, by grave cir- 
cumstances, 

It was six days since Martial had pre- 
sented himself at Courtornieu; and 
Blanche w'as half crazed with grief and 
rage. 

What Aunt Medea was forced to en- 
dure during this interval, only poor de- 
pendents in rich families can understand. 

For the first three days Mile. Blanche 
succeeded in preserving a semblance of 
self-control; on the fourth she could fen- 
dure it no longer, and in spite of the 
breach of “Zes convenances ” which it in- 
volved, she sent a messenger to Sair- 
meuse to inquire for Martial. Was he ill 
— had he gone away ? 

The messenger was informed that the 
marquis was perfectly well, but, as he 
spent the entire day, from early morn to 
dewy eve, in hunting, he went to bed 
every evening as soon as supper was 
over. 

What a horrible insult ! Still, she was 
certain that Martial, on hearing what she 


178 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


had done, would hasten to her to make 
his excuses. Vain hope ! He did not 
corner he did not even condescend to give 
one sign of life. 

“Ah! doubtlesss he is with her,” she 
said to Aunt Medea. “He is on his knees 
before that miserable Marie-Anne — his 
mistress.” 

For she had finished by believing — as 
is not unfrequently the case — the very 
calumnies which she herself had in- 
vented. 

In this extremity she decided to make 
her father her confidant ; and she wrote 
him a note announcing her coming. 

She wished her father to compel Lache- 
neur to leave the country. This would 
be an easy matter for him, since he was 
armed with discretionary authority at an 
epoch when luke-warm devotion afforded 
an abundant excuse for sending a man 
into exile. 

Fully decided upon this plan, Blanche 
became calmer on leaving the chateau ; 
and her hopes overflowed in incoherent 
phrases, to which poor Aunt Medea lis- 
tened with her accustomed resignation. 

“At last I shall be rid of this sh tmeless 
creature!” she exclaimed. “We will see 
if he has the audacity to follow her ! Will 
he follow her? .Oh, no ; he dare not !” 

. When the carriage passed through the 
village of Sairmeuse, Mile. Blanche no- 
ticed an unwonted animation. 

There were lights in every house, the 
saloons seemed full of drinkers, and 
groups of people were standing upon the 
public square and upon the doorsteps. 

But what did this matter to Mile, de 
Courtornieu ! It was not until they were 
a mile or so from Sairmeuse that she was 
startled from her reverie. 

“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she said, sud- 
denly. “Do you hear anything?” 

The poor dependent listened. Both oc- 
cupants of the carriage heard shouts that 
became more and more distinct with each 
revolution of the wheels. * 

“Let us find out the meaning of this,” 
said Mile. Blanche. 

And lowering one of the carriage win- 
dows, she asked the coachman the cause 
of the disturbance. 

“I see a great crowd of peasants on the 
hill ; they have torches and ” 

“Blessed Jesus!” interrupted Aunt 
Medea, in alarm. 

“It must be a wedding,” added the 
coachman, whipping up his horses. 

It was not a wedding, but Lacheneur’s 
little band, which had been augmented to 
the number of about five hundred. 

Lacheneur should have been at the 
Croix d'Arcy two hours before. But he 
had shared the fate of most popular 
chiefs. When an impetus had been given 
to the movement he was no longer master 
of it. 

Baron d’Escorval had made him lose 


twenty minutes; he was delayed four 
times as long in Sairmeuse. When he 
reached that village, a little behind time, 
he found the peasants scattered through 
the wine-shops, drinking to the success 
of the enterprise. 

To tear them from their merry-making 
was a long and difficult task. 

And to crown all, when they were 
finally induced to resume their line of 
march, it was impossible to persuade 
them to extingush the pine knots which 
they had lighted to serve as torches. 

Prayers and threats were alike unavail- 
ing. “They wished to see their way,” 
they said. 

Poor deluded creatures ! They had not 
the slightest conception of the difficulties 
and the perils of the enterprise they had 
undertaken. 

They were going to capture a fortified 
city, defended by a numerous garrison, 
as if they were bound on a pleasure- 
jaunt. 

Gay, thoughtless, and animated by the 
imperturbable confidence of a child, they 
were marching along, arm in arm, sing- 
ing patriotic songs. 

On horseback, in the centre of the 
band, M. Lacheneur felt his hair turning 
white with anguish. 

Would not this delay ruin everything? 
What would the others, who were wait- 
ing at Croix d'Arcy, think ! What were 
they doing at this very moment? 

“Onward! onward!” he repeated. 

Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie- 
Anne, and about twenty of the old sol- 
diers of the Empire, understood and 
shared Lacheneur’s despair. They knew 
the terrible danger they were incurring, 
and they, too, repeated : 

“Faster! Let us march faster!” 

Vain exhortation! It pleased these 
people to go slowly. 

Suddenly the entire band stopped. 
Some of the peasants, chancing to look 
back, had seen the lamps of Mile, de 
Courtornieu's carriage gleaming in the 
darkness. 

It came rapidly onward, and soon over- 
took them. The peasants recognized the 
coachman’s livery, and greeted the vehi- 
cle with shouts of derision. 

M. de Courtornieu, by his avaricious- 
ness, had made even more enemies than 
the Duke de Sairmeuse ; and all the peas- 
ants who thought they had more or less 
reason to complain of his extortions were 
delighted at this opportunity to frighten 
him. 

For, that they were not thinking of 
vengeance, is conclusively proved by the 
sequel. 

Hence great was their disappointment 
when, on opening the carriage-door, they 
saw within the vehicle only Mile. Blanche 
and Aunt Medea, who uttered the most 
piercing shrieks. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


179 


But Mile, de Courtomieu was a brave 
woman. 

“Who are you ?” she demanded, haught- 
ily, and what do you desire ?” 

“You will know to-morrow,” replied 
Chanlouineau. “Until then, you are our 
prisoner. 

“I see that you do not know who I am, 
boy.” 

“Excuse me. I do know who you are, 
and, for this very reason, I request you 
to descend from your carriage. She must 
leave the carriage, must she not, M. 
d’Escorval ?” 

“Very well! I declare that I will not 
leave my carriage ; tear me from it if you 
dare 1” 

They would certainly have dared had 
it not been for Marie- Anne, who checked 
some peasants as they were springing 
towards the carriage. 

“Let Mile, de Courtornieu pass without 
hindrance,” said she. 

But this permission might produce such 
serious consequences that Chanlouineau 
found courage to resist. 

“That cannot be. Marie- Anne,” said 
he; “She will warn her father. We 
must keep her as a hostage ; her life may 
save the life of our friends.” 

Mile. Blanche had not recognized her 
former friend, any more than she had 
suspected the intentions of this crowd of 
men. 

But Marie-Anne’s name, uttered with 
that of D’Escorval enlightened her at 
once. 

She understood it all, and trembled 
with rage at the thought that she was at 
the mercy of her rival. She resolved 
to place herself under no obligation to 
Marie-Anne Lacheneur. 

“Very well,” said she, “we will de- 
scend.” 

Her former friend checked her. 

“No,” said she, “no ! This is not the 
place for a young girl.” 

“For an honest young girl, you should 
say,” replied Blanche, with a sneer. 

Chanlouineau was standing only a few 
feet from the speaker with his gun in his 
hand. If a man had uttered those words 
he would have been instantly killed. 
Marie-Anne did not deign to notice them. 

“Mademoiselle will turn back,” she 
said, calmly; “and as she can reach Mon- 
taignac by the other road, two men will 
accompany her as far as Courtornieu.” 

She was obeyed. The carriage turned 
and rolled away, but not so quickly that 
Marie-Anne failed to hear Blanche cry : 

“Beware, Marie! I will make you pay 
dearly for your insulting patronage !” 

The hours were flying by. This inci- 
dent had occupied ten minutes more — 
ten centuries — and the last trace of order 
had disappeared. 

M. Lacheneur could have wept with 


rage. He called Maurice and Chanloui- 
neau. 

“I place you in command,” said he; 
“do all that you can to hurrj»these idiots 
onward. I will ride as fast as I can to 
the Croix-d’Arcy.” 

He started, but he was only a short 
distance in advance of his followers when 
he saw two men running towards him at 
full speed. One was clad in the attire of 
a well-to-do bourgeois; the other wore 
the old uniform of captain in the em- 
peror’s guard. 

“What has happened?” Lacheneur 
cried, in alarm. 

“All is discovered!” 

“Great God !” 

“Major Carini has been arrested.” 

“By whom? How?” 

Ah! there was a fatality about it! 
Just as we were perfecting our arrange- 
ments to capture the Duke de Sairmeuse, 
the duke surprised us. We fled, but the 
cursed noble pursued us, overtook Carini, 
seized him by the collar, and dragged 
him to the citadel.” 

Lacheneur was overwhelmed; the ab- 
be’s gloomy prophecy again resounded in 
his ears. 

“So I warned my friends, and hastened 
to warn you,” continued the officer. “The 
affair is an utter failure !” 

He was only too correct ; and Lacheneur 
knew it even better than he did. But, 
blinded by hatred and anger, he would 
not acknowledge that the disaster was 
irreparable. 

He affected a calmness which he did 
not in the least feel. 

“You are easily discouraged, gentle- 
men,” he said, bitterly. “There is, at 
least, one more chance.” 

“The devil! Then you have resources 
of which we are ignorant ?” 

“Perhaps — that depends. You have 
just passed the Croix d’Arcy ; did you tell 
any of those people what you have just 
told me?” 

“Not a word.” 

“How many men are there at the ren- 
dezvous?” 

“At least two thousand.” 

“And what is their mood?” 

“They are burning to begin the strug- 
gle. They are cursing our slowness, 
and told me to entreat jmu to make 
haste.” 

“In that case our cause is not lost,” 
said Lacheneur, with a threatening ges- 
ture. “Wait here until the peasants 
come up, and say to them that you were 
sent to tell them to make haste. Bring 
them on as quickly as possible, and have 
confidence in me; I will be responsible 
for the success of the enterprise.” 

He said this, then putting spurs to his 
horse galloped away. He had deceived 
the men. He had no other resources. 
He did not have the slightest hope of 


180 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


success. It was an abominable false- 
hood. But, if this edifice, which he had 
erected with such care and labor, was to 
totter and full, he desired to be buried be- 
neath its ruins. They would be defeated ; 
be was sure of it, but what did that mat- 
ter? In the conflict he would seek death 
and find it. 

Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at 
the Croix d’Arcy ; and after the passing 
of the officers, who had hastened to warn 
Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac, 
the murmurs of dissatisfaction were 
changed to curses. 

These peasants, nearly two thousand 
in number, were indignant at not find- 
ing their leader awaiting them at the ren- 
dezvous. 

‘‘Where is he?” they asked. “Who 
knows but he is afraid at the last moment? 
Perhaps he is concealing himself while 
we are risking our lives and the bread of 
our children here.” 

And already the epithets of mischief- 
maker and traitor were flying from lip to 
lip, and increasing the anger in every 
breast. 

Some were of the opinion that the 
crowd should disperse ; others wished to 
march against Montaignac without Lache- 
neur, and that, immediately. 

But these deliberations were inter- 
rupted by the furious gallop of a horse. 

A carriage appeared, and stopped in 
the centre of the open space. 

Two men alighted ; Baron d'Escorval 
and Abbe Midon. 

They were in advance of Lacheneur. 
They thought they had arrived in time. 

Alas ! here, as on the Reche, all their 
efforts, all their entreaties, and all their 
threats were futile. 

They had come in the hope of arresting 
the movement; they only precipitated 
it. 

“We have gone too far to draw back,” 
exclaimed one of the neighboringfarmers, 
who was the recognized leader in Lache- 
neur’s absence. “If death is before us, 
it is also behind us. To attack and con- 
quer — that is our only hope of salvation. 
Forward, then, at once. That is the 
only way of disconcerting our enemies. 
He who hesitates is a coward ! Forward ! 

A shout of approval from two thousand 
throats replied : 

“Forward !” 

They unfurled the tri-color, that much 
regretted flag that reminded them of 
so much glory, and so many great mis- 
fortunes ; the drums began to beat, and 
with shouts of: “Vive Napoleon II.!” 
the whole column took up its line of 
march. 

Pale, with clothing in disorder, and 
voices husky with fatigue and emotion, 
M, d'Escorval and the abbe followed the 
rebels, imploring them to listen to reason. 

They saw the precipice toward which 


these misguided creatures were rushing, 
and they prayed God for an inspiration 
to check them. 

In fifty minutes the distance separating 
the Croix d’Arcy from Montaignac is 
traversed. 

Soon they see the gate of the citadel, 
which was to have been opened for them 
by their friends within the walls. 

It is eleven o’clock, and yet this gate 
stands open. 

Does not this circumstance prove that 
their friends are masters of the town, and 
that they are awaiting them in force ? 

They advance, so certain of success 
that those who have guns do not even 
take the trouble to load them. 

M. d’Escorval and the abbe alone fore- 
see the catastrophe. 

The leader of the expedition is near 
them, they entreat him not to neglect 
the commonest precautions, they implore 
him to send some two men on in advance 
to reconnoitre ; they, themselves, offer to 
go, on condition that the peasants will 
await their return before proceeding far- 
ther. 

But their prayers are unheeded. 

The peasants pass the outer line of 
fortifications in safety. The head of the 
advancing column reaches the draw- 
bridge. 

The enthusiasm amounts to delirium ; 
who will be the first to enter is the only 
thought. 

Alas ! at that very moment a pistol is 
fired. 

It is a signal, for instantly , and on every 
side, resounds a terrible fusillade. 

Three or four peasants fall, mortally 
wounded. The rest pause, frozen with 
terror, thinking only of escape. 

The indecision is terrible; but the 
leader encourages his men, there are a 
few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in the 
ranks. A struggle begins, all the more 
frightful by reason of the darkness ! 

But it is not the cry of “Forward!” 
that suddenly rends the air. 

The voice of a coward sends up the 
cry of panic: 

“We are betrayed! Let him save him- 
self who can !” 

This is the end of all order. A wild 
fear seizes the throng; and these men 
flee madly, despairingly, scattered as 
withered leaves are scattered by the 
power of the tempest. 


CHAPTER LXYI. 

Chupin's stupefying revelations and 
the thought that Martial, the heir of his 
name and dukedom, should degrade him- 
self so low as to enter into a conspiracy 
with vulgar peasants, drove the Duke de 
Sairmeuse nearly wild. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


181 


But the Marquis de Courtornieu's cool- 
ness restored the duke’s sang froid. 

He ran to the barracks, and in less 
than half an hour five hundred foot 
soldiers and three hundred of the Mon- 
taignac chasseurs were under arms. 

With these forces at his disposal it 
would have been easy enough to sup- 
press this movement without the least 
bloodshed. It was only necessary to 
close the gates of the city It was not 
with fowling-pieces and clubs that these 
poor peasants could force an entrance 
into a fortified town. 

But such moderation did not suit a 
man of the duke’s violent temperament, 
a man who was ever longing for struggle 
and excitement, a man whose ambition 
prompted him to display his zeal. 

He had ordered the gate of the citadel 
to be left open, and had concealed some 
of his soldiers behind the parapets of 
the outer fortifications. 

He then stationed himself where he 
could command a view of the approach 
to the citadel, and deliberately choose 
his moment for giving the signal to fire. 

Still, a strange thing happened. Of 
four hundred shots, fired into a dense 
crowd of fifteen hundred men, only three 
had hit the mark. 

More humane than their chief, nearly 
all the soldiers had fired in the air. 

But the duke had not time to investi- 
gate this strange occurrence now. He 
leaped into the saddle, and placing him- 
self at the head of about five hundred 
men, cavalry and infantry, he started in 
pursuit of the fugitives. 

The peasants had the advantage of 
their pursuers by about twenty minutes. 

Poor simple creatures ! 

They might easily have made their es- 
cape. They had only to disperse, to 
scatter; but, unfortunately, the thought 
never once occurred to the majority of 
them. A few ran across the fields and 
gained their homes in safety ; the others, 
frantic and despairing, overcome by that 
strange vertigo that seizes the bravest in 
moments of panic, fled like a flock of 
frightened sheep. 

Fear lent them wings, for did they not 
hear each moment shots fired at the lag- 
gards ? 

But there was one man, who, at each 
of these detonations, received, as it were, 
his death-wound — this man was Lache- 
neur. 

He had reached the Croix d’Arcy just 
as the firing at Montaignac began. He 
listened and waited. No discharge of 
musketry replied to the first fusillade. 
There might have been butchery, but 
combat, no. 

Lacheneur understood it all; and he 
wished that every ball had pierced his 
own heart. 

He put spurs to his horse and galloped 


to the cross-roads. The place was de- 
serted. At the entrance of one of the 
roads stood the cabriolet which had 
brought M. d'Escorval and the abbe. 

At last M. Lacheneur saw the fugitives 
approaching in the distance. He dashed 
forward to meet them, trying by min- 
gled curses and insults to stay their 
flight. 

“Cowards !” he vociferated, “traitors ! 
You flee — and you are ten against one! 
Where are you going? To your own 
homes? Fools! you will find the gen- 
darmes there only awaiting your coming 
to conduct you to the scaffold. Is it not 
better to die with your weapons in your 
hands? Come — right about. Follow 
me! We may still conquer. Re-inf orce- 
ments are at hand; two thousand men 
are following me!” 

He promised them two thousand men ; 
had he promised them ten thousand, 
twenty thousand — an army and cannon, it 
would have made no difference. 

Not until they reached the wide open 
space of the cross-roads, where they 
had talked so confidently scarcely an 
hour before, did the most intelligent of 
the throng regain their senses, while the 
others fled in every direction. 

About a hundred of the bravest and 
most determined of the conspirators 
gathered around M. Lacheneur. In the 
little crowd was the abbe, gloomy and 
despondent. He had been separated 
from the baron. What had been his 
fate? Had he been killed or taken pris- 
oner? Was it possible that he had made 
his escape? 

The worthy priest dared not go away. 
He waited, hoping that his companion 
might rejoin him, and deemed . himself 
fortunate in finding the carriage still 
there. He was still waiting when the 
remnant of the column confided to Mau- 
rice and Chanlouineau came up. 

Of the five hundred men that composed 
it on its departure from Sairmeuse, only 
fifteen remained, including the two re- 
tired officers. 

Marie-Anne was in the centre of this 
little party. 

M. Lacheneur and his friends were try- 
ing to decide what course it was best for 
them to pursue. Should each man go 
his way? or should they unite, and by 
an obstinate resistance, give all their 
comrades time to reach their homes? 

The voice of Chanlouineau put an end 
to all hesitation. 

“I have come to fight,” he exclaimed, 
“and I shall sell my life dearly.” 

“We will make a stand then !” cried 
the others. 

But Chanlouineau did not follow them 
to the spot which they had considered 
best adapted to the prolonged defense ; 
he called Maurice and drew him a little 
aside. 


182 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“You, Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, 
almost roughly, “are going to leave here 
and at once.” 

U I — I came here, Chanlouineau, as you 

did, to do my duty.” 

“Your duty, monsieur, is to serve 
Marie-Anne. Go at once, and take her 
with you.” 

“I shall remain,” said Maurice, firmly. 

He was going to join his comrades 
when Chanlouineau stopped him. 

“You have no right to sacrifice your 
life here,” he said, quietly. “Your life 
belongs to the woman who has given 
herself to you.” 

“Wretch ! how dare you I” 

Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. 

“What is the use of denying it?” said 
he. 

“It was so great a temptation that only 
an angel could have resisted it. It was 
not your fault, nor was it hers. Lache- 
neur was a bad father. There was a day 
when I wished either to kill myself or to 
kill you, I knew not which. Ah ! only 
once again will you be as near death as 
you were that day. You were scarcely 
five paces from the muzzle of my gun. It 
was God who stayed my hand by remind- 
ing me of her despair. Now that I am to 

die, as well as Lacheneur, some one must 
care for Marie-Anne. Swear that you 
will marry her. You may be involved 
in some difficulty on account of this 
affair; but I have here the means of 
saving you.” 

A sound of firing interrupted him ; the 
soldiers of the Duke de Sairmeuse were 
approaching. 

“Good God !” exclaimed Chanlouineau, 
“and Marie-Anne!” 

They rushed in pursuit of her, and 
Maurice was the first to discover her, 
standing in the centre of the open space 
clinging to the neck of her father’s horse. 
He took her in his arms, trying to drag 
her away. 

“Come!” said he, “come!” 

But she refused. 

“Leave me, leave me !” she entreated. 

“But all is lost!” 

“Yes, I know that all is lost — even 
honor. Leave me here. I must remain ; 
I must die, and thus hide my shame. It 
must, it shall be so!” 

Just then Chanlouineau appeared. 

Had he divined the secret of her resist- 
ance? Perhaps; but without uttering a 
word, he lifted her in his strong arms as 
if she had been a child and bore her to 
the carriage guarded by Abbe Midon. 

“Get in,” he said, addressing the priest, 
“and quick— take Mile. Lacheneur. Now, 
Maurice, in your turn !” 

But already the duke’s soldiers were 
masters of the field. Seeing a group in 
the shadow, at a little distance, they 
rushed to the spot. 

The heroic Chanlouineau seized his 


gun, and brandishing it like a club held 
the enemy at bay, giving Maurice time 
to spring into the carriage, catch the 
reins and start the horse oft' at a gallop. 

All the cowardice and all the heroism 
displayed on that terrible night will 
never be really known. 

Two minutes after the departure of 
Marie-Anne and of Maurice, Chanloui- 
neau was still battling with the foe. 

A dozen or more soldiers were in front 
of him. Twenty shots had been fired, 
but not a ball had struck him. His ene- 
mies always believed him invulnerable. 

“Surrender !” cried the soldiers, amazed 
by such valor; “surrender!” 

“Never! never!” 

He was truly formidable ; he brought 
to the support of his marvelous courage 
a superhuman strength and agility. No 
one dared come within reach of those 
brawny arms, that revolved with the 
power and velocity of the sails of a wind- 
mill. 

Then it was that a soldier, confiding his 
musket to the care of a companion, threw 
himself flat upon his belly, and crawling 
unobserved around behind this obscure 
hero, seized him by the legs. He tottered 
like an oak beneath the blow of the axe, 
struggled furiously, but taken at such a 
disadvantage was thrown to the ground, 
crying, as he fell : 

“Help ! friends, help !*’ 

But no one responded to this appeal. 

At the other end of the open space 
those upon whom he called had, after a 
desperate struggle, yielded. 

The main body of the duke’s infantry 
was near at hand. 

The rebels heard the drums beating the 
charge; they could see the bayonets 
gleaming in the sunlight. 

Lacheneur, who had remained in the 
same spot, utterly ignoring the shot that 
whistled around him, felt that his few 
remaining comrades were about to be ex- 
terminated. 

In that supreme moment the whole 
past was revealed to him as by a flash of 
lightning. He read and judgod his own 
heart. Hatred had led him to crime. 
He loathed himself for the humiliation 
which he had imposed upon his daugh- 
ter. He cursed himself for the false- 
hoods by which he had deceived these 
brave men, for whose death he would be 
accountable. 

Enough blood had flowed; he must 
save those who remained. 

“Cease firing, my friends,” he com- 
manded; “retieat!” 

They obeyed— he could see them scatter 
in every direction. 

He too could flee ; was he not mounted 
upon a gallant steed, which would bear 
him beyond the reach of the enemy? 

But he had sworn that he would not 
survive defeat. Maddened with remorse, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


183 


despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he 
saw no refuge save in death. 

lie had. only to wait for it ; it was fast 
approaching; he preferred to rush to 
meet it. Gathering up the reins, he 
dashed the rowels in his steed and, alone, 
charged upon the enemy. 

The shock was rude, the ranks opened, 
there was a moment of confusion. 

But Lacheneur’s horse, its chest cut 
open by the bayonets, reared, beat the 
air with his hoofs, then fell backward, 
burying his rider beneath him. 

And the soldiers marched on, not sus- 
pecting that beneath the body of the 
horse the brave rider was struggling to 
free himself. ' 

It was half-past one in the morning — 
the place was deserted. 

Nothing disturbed the silence save the 
moans of a few wounded men, who called 
upon their comrades for succor. 

But before thinking of the wounded, 
M. de Sairmeuse must decide upon the 
course which would be most likely to re- 
dound to his advantage and to his politi- 
cal glory. 

Now that the insurrection had been 
suppressed, it was necessary to exagger- 
ate its magnitude as much as possible, in 
order that his reward should be in pro- 
portion to the service supposed to have 
been rendered. 

Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been 
captured; but that was not a sufficient 
number to give the victory the eclat 
which he desired. He must find more 
culprits to drag before the provost mar- 
shal or before a military commission. 

He, therefore, divided his troops into 
several detachments, and sent them in 
every direction with Orders to explore the 
villages, search all isolated houses, and 
arrest all suspected persons. 

His task here having been completed, 
he again recommended the mo.-t implaca- 
ble severity, and started on a brisk trot 
for Montaignac. 

He was delighted ; certainly he blessed 
— as had M. de Courtornieu — these honest 
and artless conspirators; but one fear, 
which he vainly tried to dismiss, im- 
paired his satisfaction. 

His son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, was 
he, or was he not, implicated in this con- 
spiracy ? 

He could not, he would not, believe it ; 
and yet the recollection of Chupin’s as- 
surance troubled him. 

On the other hand, what could have 
become of Martial ? The servant who had 
been sent to warn him — had he met him ? 
Was the marquis returning? And by 
which road? Could it be possible that 
he had fallen into the hands of the 
peasants ? 

The duke’s relief was intense when, on 
returning home after a conference with 
M. de Courtornieu, he learned that Mar- 


, tial had arrived about a quarter of an 
hour before. 

“The marquis went at once to his own 
room on dismounting from his horse,” 
added the servant. 

“Very well,” replied the Duke. “I 
will seek him there.” 

Before the servants he said, “Very 
well;” but secretly, he exclaimed: 
“Abominable impertinence! What! I 
am on horseback at the head of my 
troops, my life imperilled, and my son 
goes quietly to bed without even assuring 
himself of my safety!” 

He reached his son’s room, but found 
the door closed and locked on the inside. 
He rapped. 

“Who is there?” demanded Martial. 

“It is I; open the door.” 

Martial drew the bolt ; M. de Sairmeuse 
entered, but the sight that met his gaze 
made him tremble. 

Upon the table was a basin of blood, 
and Martial, with chbst bared, was bath- 
ing a large wound in his right breast. 

•‘You have been fighting !” exclaimed 
the Duke, in a husky voice. 

“Yes.” 

“Ah ! — then you were, indeed ” 

“I was where? — what?” 

“At the convocation of these miserable 
peasants who, in their parricidal folly, 
have dared to dream of the overthrow of 
the best of princes !” 

Martial’s face betrayed successively 
profound surprise, and a more violent de- 
sire to laugh. 

“I think you must be jesting, mon- 
sieur,” he replied. 

The young man’s words and manner re- 
assured the duke a little, without entirely 
dissipating his suspicions. 

“Then these vile rascals attacked you?” 
he exclaimed. 

“Not at all. I have been simply ob- 
liged to fight a duel.” 

“With whom? Name the scoundrel , 
who has dared to insult you?” 

A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; 
but it was in his usual careless tone that 
he replied : 

“Upon my word, no; I shall not give 
his name. You would trouble him, per- 
haps; and I really owe the fellow a debt 
of gratitude. It happened upon the high- 
way; he might have assassinated me 
without ceremony, but he offered me open 
combat. Besides, he was wounded far 
more severely than I.” 

All M. de Sainneuse's doubts had re- 
turned. 

“And why, instead of summoning a 
physician, are you attempting to dress 
this wound yourself? 

“Because it is a mere trifle, and be- 
cause I wish to keep it a secret.” 

The duke shook his head. 

“All t iis is scarcely plausible,” he re- 
marked; “especially after the assurance 


184 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of your complicity, which I have re- 
ceived.” 

“Ah!” said he; “and from whom? 
From your spy-in-chief, no doubt — that 
rascal Chupin. It surprises me to see 
that you can hesitate for a moment be- 
tween the word of your son and the 
stories of such a wretch.” 

“Do not speak ill of Chupin, marquis; 
he is a very useful man. Had it not been 
for him, we should have been taken' un- 
awares. It was through him that I 
learned of this vast conspiracy organized 
by Lacheneur ” 

“What ! is it Lacheneur ” 

“Who is at the head of the movement? 
— yes, marquis. Ah ! your usual discern- 
ment has f ai led you in this instance. What, 
you have been a constant visitor at this 
house, and you have suspected nothing? 
And you contemplate a diplomatic career ! 
But this is not all. You know now for what 
purpose the monejr which you so lavishly 
bestowed upon them has been employed. 
They have used it to purchase guns, pow- 
der and ammunition.” 

The duke had become satisfied of the 
injustice of his suspicions; but he was 
now endeavoring to irritate his son. 

It was a fruitless effort. Martial knew 
very well that he had been duped, but he 
did not think of resenting it. 

“If Lacheneur has been captured,” he 
thought; “if he should be condemned to 
death and if I should save him, Marie- 
Anne would refuse me nothing.” 


CHAPTER LXYII. 

Having penetrated the mysterjr that 
enveloped his son's frequent absence, the 
Baron d’Escorval had concealed his fears 
and his chagrin from his wife. 

It was the first time that he had ever 
had a secret from the faithful and cour- 
ageous companion of his existence. 

Without warning her, he went to beg 
Abbe Midon to follow him to the Reche, 
to the house of M. Lacheneur. 

The silence, on his part, explains Mme. 
d'Escorval’s astonishment when, on the 
arrival of the dinner-hour, neither her 
son nor her husband appeared. 

Maurice was sometimes late ; but the 
baron, like all great workers, was punc- 
tuality itself. What extraordinary thing 
could have happened ? 

Her surprise became uneasiness when 
she learned that her husband had de- 
parted in company with Abbe Midon. 
They had harnessed the horse themselves, 
and instead of driving through the court- 
yard as usual, they had driven through 
the stable-yard into a lane leading to the 
public road. 

What did all this mean? Why these 
strange precautions ? 


Mme. d’Escorval waited, oppressed by 
vague forebod ngs, 

The servants shared her anxiety. The 
baron was so equable in temper, so kind 
and just to his inferiors, that his servants 
adored him. and would have gone through 
a fiery furnace for him. 

So, about ten o’clock, they hastened to 
lead to their mistress a peasant who was 
returning from Sairmeuse. 

This man who was slightly intoxicated, 
told the strangest and most incredible 
stories. 

He said that all the peasantry for ten 
leagues around were under arms, and 
that the Baron d'Escorval was the leader 
of the revolt. 

He did not doubt the final success of 
the movement, declaring that Napoleon 
II., Marie-Louise, and all the marshals of 
the empire were concealed in Montaig- 
nac. 

Alas ! it must be confessed that Lache- 
neur had not hesitated to utter the 
grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain 
followers. 

Mme. d'Escorval could not be deceived 
by these ridiculous stories, but she could 
believe, and she did believe that the 
baron was the prime mover in this in- 
surrection. 

And this belief, which would have car- 
ried consternation to the hearts of so 
many women, reassured her. 

She had entire, absolute, and unlimited 
faith in her husband. She believed him 
superior to all other men — infallible, in 
short. The moment he said: “This is 
so I” she believed it implicitly. 

Hence, if her husband had organized a 
movement, that movement w T as right. If 
he had attempted it, it was because he 
expected to succeed. Therefore, it was 
sure to succeed. 

Impatient, however, to know the re- 
sult, she sent the gardener to Sairmeuse 
with orders to obtain information with- 
out awakening suspicion, if possible, and 
to hasten back as soon as he could learn 
anything of a positive nature. 

He returned in about two hours, pale, 
frightened, and in tears. 

The disaster had already become 
known, and had been related to him with 
the most terrible exaggerations. He had 
been told that hundreds of men had been 
killed, and that a whole army was scour- 
ing the country, massacring defenceless 
peasants and their families. % 

While he was telling his story, Mme. 
d'Escorval felt that she was going mad. 

She saw — yes, positively, she saw her 
son and her husband, dead — or still 
wo' se, mortally wounded upon the pub- 
lic highway — they were lying with their 
arms crossed upon their breasts, livid, 
bloody, their eyes staring wdldly — they 
were begging for water — a drop of water. 

“I will find them !” she exclaimed, in 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


185 


frenzied accents. “I will go to the field 
of battle, I will seek for them among 
the dead, until I find them. Light some 
torches, ray friends, and come with me, 
for you will aid me, will you not? You 
loved them; they were so good! You 
would not leave their dead bodies un- 
tuned! oh! the wretches! the wretches 
who have killed them !” 

The servants were hastening to obey 
when the furious gallop of a horse and 
the sound of carriage- wheels were heard 
upon the drive. 

‘•Here they are!” exclaimed the gar- 
dener, “here they are!” 

Mine d'Escorval, followed by the ser- 
vants, rushed to the door just in time to 
see a cabriolet enter the court-yard, and 
the horse, panting, exhausted, and flecked 
with foam, miss his footing, and fall. 

Abbe Midon and Maurice had already 
leaped to the ground and were lifting out 
an apparently lifeless body. 

Even Marie-Anne's great energy had 
not been able to resist so many successive 
shocks ; the last trial had overwhelmed 
her. Once in the carriage, all immediate 
danger having disappeared, the excite- 
ment which had sustained her fled. She 
became unconscious, and all the efforts 
of Maurice and of the priest had failed to 
restore her. 

But Mme. d’Escorval did not recognize 
Mile. Lacheneur in the masculine habili- 
ments in which she was clothed. 

She only saw that it was not her hus- 
band whom they had brought with them ; 
and a convulsive shudder shook her from 
head to foot. 

“ Your father, Maurice!” she ex- 
claimed, in a stifled voice; “and your 
father?” 

The effect was terrible. Until that mo- 
ment, Maurice and the cure had com- 
forted themselves with the hope that M. 
d'Escorval would reach home before 
them. 

Maurice tottered, and almost dropped 
his precious burden. The abbe perceived 
it, and at a sign from him, two servants 
gently lifted Marie-Anne, and bore her to 
the house. 

Then the cure approached Mme. d’Es- 
corval. 

“Monsieur will soon be here, madame,” 
said he, at hazard; k ‘he fled first ” 

“Baron d'Escorval could not have 
fled,” she interrupted. “A general does 
not desert when face to face with the 
enemy. If a panic seizes his soldiers, 
he rushes to the front, and either leads 
them back to combat, or takes hie own 
life.” 

“Mother !” faltered Maurice ; “mother !” 

“Oh ! do not try to deceive me. My 
husband was the organizer of this con- 
spiracy — his confederates beaten and dis- 
persed must have proved themselves 


cowards. God have mercy upon me, my 
husband is dead!” 

In spite of the abbe’s quickness of per- 
ception, he could not understand such 
assertions on the part of the baroness ; 
he thought that sorrow and terror must 
have destroyed her reason. 

“Ah ! madame,” he exclaimed, “the 
baron had nothing to do with this move- 
ment ; far from it ” 

He paused ; all this was passing in the 
court-yard, in the glare of the torches 
which had been lighted up by the ser- 
vants. Any one in the public road could 
hear and see all . He realized the impru- 
dence of which they was guilty. 

“Come, madame,” said he, leading the 
baroness toward the house; and you 
also, Maurice, come!” 

It was with the silent and passive sub- 
mission of great misery that Mme. d’Es- 
corval obeyed the cure. 

Her body alone moved in mechanical 
obedience; her mind and heart were 
flying through space to the man who was 
her all, and whose mind and heart were 
even then, doubtless, calling to her from 
the dread abyss into which he had fallen. 

But when she had passed the threshold 
of the drawing-room, she trembled and 
dropped the priest’s arm, rudely recalled 
to the present reality. 

She recognized Marie-Anne in the life- 
less form extended upon the sofa. 

“Mile. Lacheneur !” she faltered, “here 
in this costume — dead !” 

One might indeed believe the poor girl 
dead, to see her lying there rigid, cold, 
and as white as if the last drop of blood 
had been drained from her veins. Her 
beautiful face had the immobility of 
marble; her half-opened, colorless lips 
disclosed teeth convulsively clenched, 
and a large dark blue circle surrounded 
her closed eyelids. 

Her long black hair, which she had 
rolled up closely to slip under her peas- 
ant’s hat, had become unbound, and 
flowed down in rich masses over her 
shoulders and trailed upon the floor. 

“She is only in a state of syncope ; 
there is no danger,” declared the abbe, 
after he had examined Marie-Anne. “It 
will not be long before she regains con- 
sciousness.” 

And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave 
the necessary directions to the servants, 
who were astonished at their mistress. 

Mme. d’Escorval looked on with eyes 
dilated with terror. She seemed to doubt 
her own sanity, and incessantly passed 
her hand across her forehead,’ thickly 
beaded with cold sweat. 

“What a night!” she murmured. 
“What a night !” 

“I must remind you, madame,” said 
the priest, sympathizingly, but firmly, 
“that reason and duty alike forbid you 
thus to yield to despair ! Wife, where is 


186 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


your energy? Christian, what has be- 
come of your confidence in a just and 
beneficial God?” 

“Oh! I have courage, monsieur,” fal- 
tered the wretched woman. “I am 
brave !” 

The abbe led her to a large arm-chair 
where he forced her to seat herself, and 
in a gentler tone, he resumed : 

“Besides, why should you despair, 
madame? Your son, certainly, is with 
you in safety. Your husband has not 
compromised himself ; he has done noth- 
ing which I, myself, have not done.” 

And briefly, but with rare precision, 
he explained the part which he and the 
baron had played during this unfortunate 
evening. 

But this recital, instead of reassuring 
the baroness, seemed to increase her 
anxiety. 

“I understand you,” she interrupted, 
“and I believe you. But I also know 
that all the people in the country round 
about are convinced that my husband 
commanded the insurrectionists. They 
believe it, and they will say it.” 

“And what of that?” 

“If he has been arrested, as you give 
me to understand, he will be summoned 
before a court-martial. W as he not the 
friend of the emperor? That is a crime, 
as you very well know. He will be con- 
victed and sentenced to death.” 

“No, madam, no! Am I not here? I 
will appear before the tribunal, and I 
shall say : ‘Here I am ! I have seen and 
I know all.’ ” 

“But they will arrest you, alas, mon- 
sieur, because you are not a priest ac- 
cording to the hearts of these cruel men. 
They will throw you in prison, and you 
will meet him upon the scaffold.” 

Maurice had been listening, pale and 
trembling. 

But on hearing these last words, he 
sank upon his knees, hiding his face in 
his hands : 

“Ah ! I have killed my father !” he ex- 
claimed. 

“Unhappy child! what do you say?” 

The priest motioned him to be silent ; 
but he did not see him, and he pursued : 

“My father was ignorant even of the 
existence of this conspiracy of which M. 
Lacheneur was the guiding spirit ; but I 
knew it — I wished him to succeed, be- 
cause on his success depended the happi- 
ness of my life. And then— wretch that 
I was ! — when I wished to attract to our 
ranks some timid or wavering accomplice, 
I used the loved and respected name of 
D’Escorval. Ah, I was mad! — I was 
mad !” 

Then with a despairing gesture, he 
added ; 

“And yet, even now, I have not the 
courage to curse my folly ! Oh, mother, 
mother, if you knew ” 


His sobs interrupted him. Just then a 
faint moan was heard. 

Marie-Anne was regaining conscious- 
ness. Already she had partially risen 
from the sofa, and sat regarding this 
terrible scene with an air of profound 
wonder, as if she did not understand it in 
the least. 

Slowly and gently she put back her 
hair from her face, and opened and closed 
her eyes, which seemed dazzled by the 
light of the candles. 

She endeavored to speak, to ask some 
question, but Abbe Midon commanded 
silence by a gesture. 

Enlightened by the words of Mine. d’Es- 
corval, and by the confession of Maurice, 
the abbe understood at once the extent of 
the frightful danger that menaced the 
baron and his son. 

How was this danger to be averted? 
What must be done? 

He had no time for explanation or re- 
flection : with each moment, a chance of 
salvation fled. He must decide and act 
without delay. 

The abbe was a brave man. He darted 
to the door, and called the servants who 
were standing in the hall and on the stair- 
case. 

When they were gathered around him : 

“Listen to me, intently,” said he, in 
that quick and imperious voice that im- 
presses one with the certainty of ap- 
proaching peril, “and remember that 
your master's life depends, perhaps, upon 
your discretion. We can rely upon you, 
can we not?” 

Every hand w r as raised as if to call 
upon God to witness their fidelity. 

“In less than an hour,” continued the 
priest, “the soldiers sent in pursuit of the 
fugitives will be here. Not a word must 
be uttered in regard to what has passed 
this evening. Every one must be led to 
suppose that I went away with the baron, 
and returned alone. Not one of you 
must have seen Mile. Lacheneur. We 
are going to find a place of concealment 
for her. Remember, my friends, if there 
is the slightest suspicion of her presence 
here, all is lost. If the soldiers question 
you, endeavor to convince them that M. 
Maurice has not left the house this even- 
ing.” 

He paused trying to think if he had 
forgotten any precaution that human 
prudence could suggest, then added : 

“One word more; to see you standing 
about at this hour of the night will 
awaken suspicion at once. But this is 
what i desire. We will plead in justifi- 
cation, the alarm that you feel at the ab- 
sence of the baron, and also the indispo- 
sition of madame — for madame is going 
to retire — she will thus escape interroga- 
tion. And you, Maurice, run and change 
your clothes ; and, above all, wash your 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


187 


hands, and sprinkle some perfume upon 
them.” 

All present were so impressed with the 
imminence of the danger, that they were 
more than willing to obey the priest’s 
orders. 

Marie-Anne, as soon as she could be 
moved, was carried to a tiny room under 
the roof. Mme. d’Escorval retired to her 
own apartment, and the servants went 
back to the office. 

Maurice and the abbe remained alone 
in the drawing-room, silent and appalled 
by horrible forebodings. 

The unusually calm face of the priest 
betrayed his terrible anxiety. He now 
felt convinced that Baron d’Escorval was 
a prisoner, and all his efforts were now 
directed towards removing any suspicion 
of complicity from Maurice. 

“This was,” he reflected, “the only 
way to save the father.” 

A violent peal of the bell attached to 
the gate interrupted his meditations. 

He heard the footsteps of the gardener 
as he hastened to open it, heard the gate 
turn upon its hinges, then the measured 
tramp of soldiers in the court-yard. 

A loud voice commanded : 

“Halt!” 

The priest looked at Maurice and saw 
that he was as pale as death. 

“Be calm,” he entreated, “do not be 
alarmed. Do not lose your self-posses- 
sion — and do not forget my instructions.” 

“Let them come,” replied Mam-ice. “I 
am prepared !” 

The drawing-room door was flung vio- 
lently open, and a young man, wearing 
the uniform of a captain of grenadiers, 
entered. He was scarcely twenty-five 
years of * age, tall, fair-haired, with blue 
eyes and little waxed .moustache. His 
whole person betokened an excessive ele- 
gance exaggerated to the verge of the 
ridiculous. His face ordinarily must 
have indicated extreme self-complacency, 
but at the present moment it wore a 
really ferocious expression. 

Behind him, in the passage, were a 
number of armed soldiers. 

He cast a suspicious glance around the 
room, then, in a harsh voice : 

“Who is the master of this house?” he 
demanded. 

“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, 
“who is absent,” replied Maurice. 

“Where is he?” * 

The abbe, who, until now, had re- 
mained seated, rose. 

“On hearing of the unfortunate out- 
break of this evening,” he replied, “the 
baron and myself went to these peasants 
in the hope of inducing them to relin- 
quish their foolish undertaking. They 
would not listen to us. In the confusion 
that ensued, I became separated from 
the baron ; I returned here very anxious, 
and am now awaiting his return.” 


The captain twisted his moustache with 
a sneering air. 

“Not a bad invention!” said he. “Only 
I do not believe a word of this fiction.” 

A light gleamed in the eyes of the 
priest, his lips trembled — but he held his 
peace. 

“Who are you?” rudely demanded the 
officer. 

“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.” 

“Honest men ought to be in bed at this 
hour. And you are racing about the 
country after rebellious peasants. Real- 
ly, I do not know what prevents me from 
ordering your arrest.” 

That which did prevent him was the 
priestly robe, all powerful under the 
Restoration. With Maurice he was more 
at ease. 

“How many are there in this family?” 

“Three; my father, my mother — ill at 
this moment — and myself.” 

“And how many servants?” 

“R#wen — four men and three women.” 

“l'ou have neither received nor con- 
cealed any one this evening. ?” 

“No one.” 

“It will be necessary to prove this,” 
said the captain. 

And turning towards the door : 

“Corporal Bavois!” he called. 

This man was one of those old soldiers 
who had followed the emperor over all 
Europe. Two small ferocious gray eyes 
lighted his tanned, weather-beaten face, 
and an immense hooked nose surmounted 
a heavy, bristling moustache. 

“Bavois,” commanded the officer, “you 
will take half a dozen men and search 
this house from top to bottom. You are 
an old fox that knows a thing or two. 
If there is any hiding-place here, you 
will be sure to discover it ; if any one is 
concealed here, you will bring the 
person to me. “Go, and make haste !” 

The corporal departed on his mission ; 
the captain resumed his questions. 

“And now,” said he, turning to 
Maurice, “what have you been doing 
this evening?” 

The young man hesitated for an in- 
stant; then, with well-feigned indiffer- 
ence, replied : 

“I have not put my head outside the 
door this evening.” 

“Hum! that must be proved. Let me 
see your hands.” 

The soldier’s tone was so offensive that 
Maurice felt the angry blood mount to 
his forehead. Fortunately a warning 
glance from the abbe made him restrain 
his wrath. 

He offered his hands to the inspection 
of the captain, who examined them care- 
fully, outside and in, and finally smelled 
them. 

“Ah ! these hands are too white and 
smell too sweet to have been dabbling in 
powder.” 


188 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


He was evidently surprised that this 
young man should have had so little 
coin age as to remain in the shelter of the 
fireside while his father was leading the 
peasants on to battle. 

“Another thing,” said he; “you must 
have weapons here?” 

“Yes, hunting rifles.” 

“Where are they?” 

“In a small room on the ground floor.” 

“Take me there.” 

They conducted him to the room, and 
on finding that none of the double-bar- 
relled guns had been used for some days, 
he seemed considerably annoyed. 

He appeared furious when the corpo- 
ral came and told him that he had 
searched everywhere, but had found noth- 
ing of a suspicious character. 

“Send for the servants,” was his next 
order. 

But all the servants faithfully repeated 
the lesson which the abbe ha^ given 
them. 

The captain saw that he was not likely 
to discover the mystery, although he 
was well satisfied that one existed. 

Swearing that thejr should pay dearly 
for it, if they were deceiving him, he 
again called Bavois. 

“I must continue my search,” said he. 
“You, with two men, will remain here, 
and render a strict account of all that 
you see and hear. If M. d’Escorval re- 
turns, bring him to me at once ; do not 
allow him to escape. Keep your eyes 
open, and good luck to you !” 

He added a few words in a low voice, 
then left the room as abruptly as he had 
entered it. 

The departing footsteps of the sol- 
diers were soon lost in the stillness of the 
night, and then the corporal gave vent 
to his disgust in a frightful oath. 

u Hein /” said he, to his men, “you 
have heard that cadet. Listen, watch, 
arrest, report. So he takes us for spies ! 
Ah ! if our old leader knew to what base 
uses his old soldiers were degraded!” 

The two men responded by a sullen 
growl. 

“As for you.” pursued the old 
trooper, addressing Maurice and the 
abbe, “I Bavois, corporal of grena- 
diers, declare in my name and in that of 
my two men, that you are as free as 
birds, and that we shall arrest no one. 
More than that, if we can aid you in any 
way, we are at your service. The little 
fool that commanded us this evening 
thought we were fighting. Look at my 
gun— I have not fired a shot from it — 
and my comrades fired only blank car- 
tridges.” 

The man might possibly be sincere, 
but it was scarcely probable. 

“We have nothing to conceal,” replied 
the cautious priest. 

The old corporal gave a knowing wink. 


“Ah! you distrust me! You are 
wrong; and I am going to prove it. 
Because, you see, though it is easy to 
gull that fool who just left here, it is 
not so easy to deceive Corporal Bavois. 
Very well! it was scarcely prudent to 
leave in the court-yard a gun that cer- 
tainly had not been charged for firing at 
swallows.” 

The cure and Maurice exchanged a 
glance of consternation. Maurice now 
recollected, for the first time, that w r hen 
he sprang from the carriage to lift out 
Marie-Anne, he propped his loaded gun 
against the wall. It had escaped the no- 
tice of the servants. 

“Secondly!” pursued Bavois, “there is 
some one concealed in the attic. I have 
excellent ears. Thirdly, I arranged it so 
that no one should enter the sick lady’s 
room. 

Maurice needed no further proof. He 
extended his hand to the corporal, and, 
in a voice trembling with emotion, he 
said : 

“You are a brave man !” 

A few moments later, Maurice, the 
abbe, and Mine. d’Escorval were again 
assembled in the drawing-room, deliberat- 
ing upon the measures which must be 
taken when Marie-Anne appeared. 

She was still frightfully pale ; but her 
step was firm, her manner quiet and com- 
posed. 

“I must leave this house,” she said, to 
the baroness. “Had I been conscious, I 
would never have accepted hospitality 
which is likly to bring dire misfortune 
on your f amily. Alas ! your acquaint- 
ance with me has cost you too many tears 
and too much sorrow already. Do you 
understand now, why I wished you to re- 
gard us as strangers? A presentiment 
told me that my family w r ould be fatal to 
yours !” 

“Poor child!” exclaimed Mme. d’Es- 
corval; “w T here will you go?” 

Marie-Anne lifted her beautiful eyes to 
the Heaven in which she placed her 
trust. 

“I do not know, madame,” she replied, 
“but duty commands me to go. I must 
learn what has become of my father and 
my brother, and share their fate.” 

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “still 
this thought of death. You, who no 
longer ” 

He pau&d ; a secret which was not his 
own had almost escaped his lips. But 
visited by a sudden inspiration, he threw 
himself at his mother’s feet. 

.“Oh, my mother! my dearest mother, 
do not allow her to depart. I may per- 
ish in my attempt to save my father. 
She will be your daughter then — she 
whom I have loved so much. You will 
encircle her with your tender and pro- 
tecting love ” 

Marie-Anne remained. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


189 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 


The secret which approaching death 
had wrested from Marie-Anne in the 
fortification at the Croix d’Arcy, Mine. 
d’Escorval was ignorant of when she 
joined her entreaties to those of her son 
to induce the unfortunate girl to remain. 

But the fact occasioned Maurice 
scarcely an uneasiness. 

His fate in his mother was complete, 
absolute ; he was sure that she would for- 
give when she learned the truth. 

Loving and chaste wives and mothers 
are always most indulgent to those who 
have been led astray by the voice of pas- 
sion. 

Such noble women can, -with impunity, 
despise and brave the prejudices of 
hypocrites. 

These reflections made Maurice feel 
more tranquil in regard to Marie-Anne’ s 
future, and he now thought only of his 
father. 

Day was breaking ; he declared that he 
would assume some disguise and go to 
Montaignac at once. 

On hearing these words, Mme. d’Escor- 
val turned and hid her face in the sofa 
cushions to stifle her sobs. 

She was trembling for her husband’s 
life, and now her son must precipitate 
himself into danger. Perhaps before the 
sun sank to rest, she would have neither 
husband nor son. 

And yet she did not say “no.” She 
felt that Maurice was only fulfilling a 
sacred duty. She would have loved him 
less had she supposed him capable of 
cowardly hesitation. She would have 
dried her tears, if necessary, to bid him 


“go.” 

Moreover, what was not preferable to 
the agony of suspense which they had 
been enduring for hours ? 

Maurice had reached the door when the 
abbe stopped him. 

“You must go to Montaignac,” said 
he, “but it would be folly to disguise 
yourself. You would certainly be recog- 
nized, and the saying : ‘He who conceals 
himself is guilty,’ will 'assuredly be ap- 
plied. to you. You must go openly, with 
head erect, and you must even exagger- 
ate the assurance of innocence. Go 
straight to the Duke de Sairmeuse and 
the Marquis de Courtornieu. I will ac- 
company you; we will go in the car- 
riage.” 

Maurice seemed undecided. 

“Obey these counsels, my son,” said 
Mme. d'Escorval ; “the abbe knows much 
better than we do what is best.” 

“I will obey, mother.” 

The cure had not waited for this assent 
to go and give an order for harnessing 
the horses. Mme. d’Escorval left the 


room to write a few lines to a lady friend, 
whose husband exerted considerable in- 
fluence in Montaignac. Maurice* and 
Marie-Anne were left alone. 

It was the first moment of freedom and 
solitude which they had found since 
Marie- Anne’s confession. 

They stood for a moment, silent and 
motionless, then Maurice advanced, and 
clasping her in his arms, he whispered : 

“Marie-Anne. my darling, my beloved, 
I did not know that one could love more 
fondly than I loved jmu yesterday ; but 

now And you — you wish for death 

when another precious life depends upon 
yours.” 

She shook her head sadly. 

“I was terrified,” she faltered. “The 
future of shame that I saw — that I still — 
alas ! see before me, appalled me. Now 
I am resigned. I will uncomplainingly en- 
dure the punishment for my horrible 
fault — I will submit to the insults and 
disgrace that await me !” 

“Insults, to you! Ah! woe to who 
dares ! But will you not now be my wife 
in the sight of men, as you are in the 
sight of God? The failure of your 
father’s scheme sets you free !” 

“No, no, Maurice, I am not free! Ah! 
it is you who are pitiless ! I see only too 
well that you curse me, that you curse 
the day when we met for the first time ! 
Confess it ! Say it !” 

Marie-Anne lifted her streaming eyes 
to his. 

“Ah! I should lie if I said that. My 
cowardly heart has not that much cour- 
age! I suffer — I am disgraced and hu- 
miliated, but ” 

She could not finish ; he drew her to 
him, and their lips and their tears inet in 
ohe long kiss. 

“You love me,” exclaimed Maurice, 
“you love me in spite of all! We shall 
succeed. I will save your father, and 
mine — I will save your brother!” 

The horses v r ere neighing and stamping 
in the court-yard. The abbe cried : 
“Come, let us st irt.” Mme. d'Escorval 
entered with a letter, which she handed 
to Maurice. 

She clasped in a long and convulsive 
embrace the son whom she feared she 
should never see again; then, summon- 
ing all her courage, she pushed him 
away, uttering only the single word : 

“Go!” 

He departed ; and when the sound of 
the carriage-wheels had died away in the 
distance, Mme. d’Escorval and Marie- 
Anne fell upon their knees, imploring the 
mercy and aid of a just God. 

They could only pray. The cure and 
Maurice could act. 

Abbe Midon’s plan, which he explained 
to young d’Escorval, as the horses dashed 
along, was as simple as the situation was 
terrible. 


190 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“If, by confessing your own guilt, you 
coulcLsave your father, I should tell you 
to deliver yourself up, and to confess the 
whole truth. Such would be your duty. 
But this sacrifice would be not only use- 
less, but dangerous. Your confession of 
guilt would only implicate your father 
still more. You would be arrested, but 
they would not release him, and you 
would both be tried and convicted. Let 
us, then, allow — I will not say justice, for 
that would be blasphemy — but these 
blood-thirsty men, who call themselves 
judges, to pursue their course, and at- 
tribute all that you have done to your 
father. When the trial comes, you will 
prove his innocence, and produce alibis 
so incontestable, that they will be forced 
to acquit him. And I understand the 
people of our country so well, that I am 
sure not one of them will reveal our 
stratagem.” 

“And if we should not succeed,” asked 
Maurice, gloomily, “what could I do 
then?” 

The question was so terrible that the 
priest dared not respond to it. He and 
Maurice were silent during the remain- 
der of the drive. 

They reached the city at last, and 
Maurice saw how wise the abbe had been 
in preventing him from assuming a dis- 
guise. 

Armed with the most absolute power, 
the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis 
de Courtornieu had closed all the gates 
of Montaignac save one. 

Through this gate all who desired to 
leave or enter the city were obliged to 
pass, and two officers were stationed 
there to examine all comers and goers, 
to question them, and to take their name 
and residence. 

At the name “D’Escorval,” the two 
officers evinced such surprise that Maurice 
noticed it at once. 

“Ah! you know what has become of 
my father!” he exclaimed. 

“The Baron d’Escorval is a prisoner, 
monsieur,” replied one of the officers. 

Although Maurice had expected this 
response, he turned pale. 

“Is he wounded?” he asked, eagerly. 

“He has not a scratch. But enter, sir, 
* and pass on.” 

From the anxious looks of these offi- 
cers one might have supposed that they 
feared they should compromise them- 
selves by conversing with the son of so 
great a criminal. 

The carriage rolled beneath the gate- 
way; but it had not traversed two hun- 
dred yards of the Grand Rue before the 
abbe and Maurice had remarked several 
posters and notices affixed to the walls. 

“We must see what this is,” they said, 
in a breath. 

They stopped near one of these notices, 
before which a reader had already sta- 


tioned himself; they descended from the 
carriage, and read the following order : 

“Article I. — The inmates of the house 
in which the elder Lacheneur shall be 
found will be handed over to a military 
commission for trial. 

“Article II. — Whoever shall deliver 
the body of the elder Lacheneur. dead or 
alive, will receive a reward of twenty 
thousand francs.” 

This was signed Duke de Sairmeuse. 

“God be praised !” exclaimed Maurice, 
“Marie- Anne’s father has escaped! He 
had a good horse, and in two hours ” 

A glance and a nudge of the elbow 
from the abbe checked him. 

The abbe drew his attention to the man 
standing near them. This man was none 
other than Chupin. 

The old scoundrel had also recognized 
them, for he took off his hat to the cure, 
and with an expression of intense covet- 
ousness in his eyes, he said: “Twenty 
thousand francs ! What a sum ! A man 
could live comfortably all his life on the 
interest of it.” 

The abbe and Maurice shuddered as 
they re-entered their carriage. 

“Lacheneur is lost if this man discovers 
his retreat,” murmured the priest. 

“Fortunately he must have crossed the 
frontier before this,” replied Maurice. 
“A hundred to one he is beyond reach.” 

“And if you should be mistaken. 
What, if wounded and faint from loss of 
blood, Lacheneur has had only strength 
to drag himself to the nearest house and 
ask the hospitality of its inmates?” 

“Oh! even in that case he is safe; I 
know our peasants. There is not one who 
is capable of selling the life of a pro- 
scribed man.” 

The noble enthusiasm of youth drew a 
sad smile from the priest. 

“You forget the dangers to be incurred 
by those who shelter him. Many a man 
who would not soil his hands with the 
price of blood might deliver up a fugitive 
from fear.” • 

They were passing through the princi- 
pal street, and they were struck with the 
mournful aspect of the place — the little 
city which was ordinarily so bustling and 

gay- 

Fear and consternation evidently 
reigned there. The shops were closed ; 
the shutters of the houses had not been 
opened. A lugubrious silence pervaded 
the town. One might have supposed that 
there was general mourning, and that 
each family had lost one of its members. 

The manner of the few persons seen 
upon the thoroughfare was anxious and 
singular. They hurried on, casting sus- 
picious glances on every side. 

Two or three who were acquaintan ;es 
of the Baron d’Escorval averted their 
heads, on seeing his carriage, to avoid the 
necessity of bowing. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


191 


The abbe and Maurice found an explan- 
ation of this evident terror on reaching 
the hotel to which they had ordered the 
coachman to take them. 

They had designated the Hotel de 
France, where the baron always stopped 
when he visited Montaignac, and whose 
proprietor was none other than Lauge- 
ron, that friend of Lacheneur, who had 
been the first to warn him of the arrival 
of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

This worthy man, on hearing what 
guests had arrived, went to the court- 
yard to meet them, with his white cap in 
his hand. 

On such a day politeness was heroism. 
Was he connected with the conspiracy? 
It has always been supposed so. 

He invited Maurice and the abbe to 
take some refreshments in a way that 
made them understand he was anxious to 
speak with them, and he conducted them 
to a retired room where he knew they 
would be secure from observation. 

Thanks to one of the Duke de Sair- 
meuse’s valets de ehambre who fre- 
quented the house, the host knew as much 
as the authorities ; he knew even more, 
since he had also received information 
from the rebels who had escaped cap- 
ture. 

From him the abbe and Maurice re- 
ceived their first positive information. 

In the first place, nothing had been 
heard of Lacheneur, or of his son Jean; 
thus far they had escaped the most rig- 
orous pursuit. 

In the second place, there were, at this 
moment, two hundred prisoners in the 
citadel, and among them the Baron d'Es- 
corval and Chanlouineau. 

And lastly, since morning there had 
been at least sixty arrests in Montaignac. 

It was generally supposed that these 
arrests were the work of some traitor, 
and all the inhabitants were trembling 
with fear. 

But M. Laugeron knew the real cause. 
It had been confided to him under pledge 
of secrecy by his guest, the duke's valet 
de ehambre. 

“It is certainly an incredible story, gen- 
tlemen,” he said; “nevertheless, it is 
true. Two officers belonging to the Mon- 
taignac militia, on returning from their 
expedition this morning at daybreak, on 
passing the Croix d’Arcy, found a man, 
clad in the uniform of the emperor’s body 
guard, lying dead in the fosse.” 

Maurice shuddered. 

The unfortunate man, he could not 
doubt, was the brave old soldier who had 
spoken to Lacheneur. 

“Naturally,” pursued M. Laugeron, 
“the two officers examined the body of 
the dead man. Between his lips they 
found a paper, which they opened and 
read. It was a list of all the conspira- 
tors in the village. The brave man, 


[knowing he was mortally wounded, en- 
deavored to destroy this fatal list; but 
the agonies of death prevented him from 
swallowing it ” 

But the abbe and Maurice had not time 
to listen to the commentaries with which 
the hotel proprietor accompanied his re- 
cital. 

They despatched a messenger to Mme. 
d’Escorval and to Marie-Anne, in order to 
reassure them, and, without losing a mo- 
ment, and fully determined to brave all, 
they went to the house occupied by the 
Duke de Sairmeuse. 

A crowd had gathered about the door. 
At least a hundred persons were stand- 
ing there ; men with anxious faces, wo- 
men in tears, soliciting, imploring an 
audience. 

They were the friends and relatives of 
the unfortunate men who had been ar- 
rested. 

Two footmen, in gorgeous livery and 
pompous in bearing, had all they could 
do to keep back the struggling throng. 

The abbe, hoping that his priestly dress 
would win him a hearing, approached 
and gave his name. But he was repulsed 
like the others. 

“M. le Due is busy, and can receive no 
one,” said the servant. “M. le Due is 
preparing his report for his majesty.” 

And in support of this assertion, he 
pointed to the horses, standing saddled 
in the court-yard, and the couriers who 
were to bear the dispatches. 

The priest sadly rejoined his compan- 
ions. 

“We must wait!” said he. 

Intentionally or not, the servants were 
deceiving these poor people. The duke, 
just then, was not troubling himself 
about dispatches. A violent altercation 
was going on between the Marquis de 
Courtornieu and himself. 

Each of these noble personages aspired 
to the leading role — the one which would 
be most generously rewarded, undoubt- 
edly. It was a conflict of ambitions / and 
of wills. 

It had begun by the exchange of a few 
recriminations, and it quickly reached 
stinging words, bitter allusions, and at 
last, even threats. 

The marquis declared it necessary to 
inflict the most frightful — he said the 
most salutary punishment upon the offen- 
der ; the duke, on the contrary, was in- 
clined to be indulgent. 

The marquis declared that since Lache- 
neur, the prime mover, and his son, 
had both eluded pursuit, it was an ur- 
gent necessity to arrest Marie-Anne. 

The other declared that the arrest and 
imprisonment of this young girl would 
be impolitic, that such a course would 
render the authorities odious, and the 
rebels more zealous. 

As each was firmly wedded to his own 


192 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


opinion, the discussion was heated, but 
thej' - failed to convince each other. 

“These rebels must be put down with 
a strong hand!” urged M. de Courtor- 
nieu. 

“I do not wish to exasperate the popu- 
lace,” replied the duke. 

“Bah! what does public sentiment 
matter?” 

“It matters a great deal when you can- 
not depend upon your soldiers. Do you 
know what happened last night? There 
was powder enought burned to win a 
battle ; tt there were only fifteen peasants 
wounded. Our men fired in the air. 
You forget that the Montaignac militia 
is composed, for the most part, at least, 
of men who formerly fought under Bona- 
parte, and who are burning to turn their 
weapons against us.” 

But neither the one nor the other dared 
to tell the real cause of his obstinacy. 

Mile. Blanche had been at Montaignac 
that morning. She had confided her anx- 
iety and her sufferings to her father ; and 
she made him swear that he would profit 
by this opportunity to rid her of Marie- 
Anne. 

One his side, the duke, persuaded that 
Marie- Anne was his son’s mistress, wished 
at any cost, to prevent her appearance 
before the tribunal. At last the mar- 
quis yielded. 

The d uke had said to him : “ Y ery well ! 
let us end this dispute,” at the same time 
glancing so meaningly.at a pair of pistols 
that the worthy marquis felt a disagree- 
able chilliness creep up his spine. 

They then went together to examine the 
prisoners, preceded by a detachment of 
soldiery who drove back the crowd, 
which gathered again to await the duke’s 
return. So all day Maurice watched the 
aerial telegraph established upon the cit- 
adel, and whose black arms were moving 
incessantly. 

“What orders are traveling through 
space?” he said to the abbe; “is it life, or 
is it death?” 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

“Above all, make haste!” Maurice had 
said to the messenger charged with bear- 
ing a letter to the baroness. 

Nevertheless, the man did not reach 
Escorval until night-fall. 

Beset by a thousand fears, he had taken 
the unfrequented roads and had made 
long circuits to avoid all the people he 
saw approaching in the distance. 

Mine. d’Escorval tore the letter rather 
than took it from his hands. She opened 
it, read it aloud to Marie-Anne, and 
merely said : 

“Let us go — at once.” 

But this was easier said than done. 


They kept but three horses at Escorval. 
One was nearly dead from its terrible 
journey of the previous night ; the other 
two were in Montaignac. 

What were the ladies to do ? To trust 
to the kindness of their neighbors was the 
only resource open to them. 

But these neighbors, having heard of 
the baron’s arrest, firmly refused to 
lend their horse. They believed they 
would gravely compromise themselves 
by rendering any service to the wife of a 
man upon whom the burden of the most 
terrible of accusations was resting. 

Mme. d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were 
talking of pursuing their journey on foot, 
when Corporal Bavois, enraged at such 
cowardice, swore by the sacred name of 
thunder that this should not be. 

“One moment!” said he. “I will ar- 
range the matter.” 

He went away, but reappeared about a 
quarter of an hour afterwards, leading 
an old plough-horse by the mane. This 
clumsy and heavy steed he harnessed 
into the cabriolet as best he could. 

But even this did not satisfy the old 
trooper’s complaisance. 

His duties at the chateau were over, as 
M. d'Escorval had been arrested, and 
nothing remained for Corporal Bavois 
but to rejoin his regiment. 

He declared that he would not allow 
these ladies to travel at night, and un- 
attended, on a road where they might be 
exposed to many disagreeable encoun- 
ters, and that he, in company with two 
grenadiers, would escort them to their 
journey’s end. 

“And it will go hard with soldier or 
civilian who ventures to molest them, 
will it not, comrades?” he exclaimed. 

As usual, the two men, assented with 
an oath. 

So, as they pursued their journey, 
Mme. d’Escorval and Marie-Anne saw 
the three men preceding or following the 
carriage, or oftener walking beside it. 

Not until they reached the gates of 
Montaignac did the old soldier forsake 
his protegees, and then, not without bid- 
ding them a respectful farewell, in the 
name of his companions as well as him- 
self; not without telling them, if they 
had need of him, to «call upon Bavois, 
corporal of grenadiers, company first, 
stationed at the citadel. 

The clocks were striking ten when M. 
d'Escorval and Marie-Anne alighted at 
the Hotel de France. 

They found Maurice in despair, and 
even the abbe disheartened. Since Mau- 
rice had written to them, events had pro- 
gressed with fearful rapidity. 

They knew now the orders which had 
been forwarded by signals from the cita- 
del. These orders had been printed and 
affixed to the walls. The signals had said : 

“Montaignac must be regarded as in a 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


103 


state of siege. The military authorities 1 
have been granted discretionary power. 
A military commission will exercise jur- 
isdiction instead of, and in place of. the 
courts. Let peaceable citizens take cour- 
age; let the evil-disposed tremble! As 
for the rabble, the sword of the law is 
about to strike !” 

Only six lines in all— but each word 
was a menace. 

That which filled the abbe’s heart with 
dismay was the substitution of a military 
commission for a court-martial. 

This upset all his plans, made all his 
precautions useless, and destroyed his 
hopes of saving his friend. 

A court-martial was, of course, hasty 
and often unjust in its decisions; but 
still, it observed some of the forms of 
procedure practiced in judicial tribunals. 
It still preserved something of the 
solemnity of legal justice, which desires 
to be enlightened before it condemns. 

A military commission would infallibly 
neglect all legal forms ; and summarily 
condemn and punish the accused parties, 
as in time of war a spy is tried and pun- 
ished. 

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “they 
dare to condemn without investigating, 
without listening to testimonjr, without 
allowing the accused time to prepare any 
defense?” 

The abbe was silent. This exceeded 
his most sinister apprehensions. Now, 
he believed anything possible. 

Maurice spoke an investigation. It 
had commenced that day, and it was still 
going on by the light of* the jailer’s 
lantern. 

That is to say, the Duke de Sairmeuse 
and the Marquis de Courtornieu were 
passing the prisoners in review. 

They numbered three hundred, and the 
duke and his companion had decided to 
summon before the commission thirty of 
the most dangerous conspirators. 

How were they to select them? By 
what method could they discover the 
extent of each prisoner’s guilt? It would 
have been difficult for them to explain. 

They went from one to another, asking 
any question that entered their minds, 
and after the terrified man replied, ac- 
cording as they thought his countenance 
good or bad, they said to the jailor who 
accompanied them : “Keep this one until 
another time,” or, “This one, for to-mor- 
row.” 

By daylight, they had thirty names 
upon their list : and the names of the 
Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau led 
all the rest. 

Although the unhappy party at the 
Hotel de France could not suspect this 
fact, they suffered an agony of fear and 
dread through the long night which i 
seemed to them eternal. 

As soon as day broke, they heard the : 

13 


beating of the reveille at the citadel ; the 
hour when they might commence their 
efforts anew had come. 

The abbe announced that he was going 
alone to the duke’s house, and that he 
would find a way to force an entrance. 

He had bathed his red and swollen eyes 
in fresh water, and was prepared to start 
on his expedition, when some one rapped 
cautiously at the door of the chamber. 

Maurice cried: “Come in,” and M. 
Laugeron instantly entered the room. 

His face announced some dreadful mis- 
fortune ; and the worthy man was really 
terrified. 

He had just learned that the military 
commission had been organized. 

In contempt of all human laws and the 
commonest rules of justice, the presi- 
dency of this tribunal of vengeance and 
of hatred had been bestowed upon the 
Duke de Sairmeuse. 

And he had accepted it — he who was 
at the same time to play the part of par- 
ticipant, witness, and judge. 

The other members of the commission 
were military men. 

“And when does the commission enter 
upon its functions?” inquired the abbe. 

“To-day,” replied the host, hesitat- 
ingly; “this morning — in an hour — per- 
haps sooner!” 

The abbe understood what M. Lau- 
geron meant, but dared not say: “The 
commission is assembling, make haste.” 

“Come!” he said to Maurice, “I wish 
to be present when your father is ex- 
amined.” 

Ah ! what would not the baroness have 
given to follow the priest and her son? 
But she could not ; she understood this, 
and submitted. 

They set out, and as they stepped into 
the street they saw a soldier a little way 
from them, who made a friendly gesture. 

They recognized Corporal Bavois, and 
paused. 

But he, passing them with an air of the 
utmost indifference, and apparently wi 11- 
out observing them, hastily dropped 
these words : 

“I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of 
good cheer; he promises to save M. 
d’Escorval I” 


CHAPTER LXX. 

In the citadel of Montaignac, within 
the second line of fortifications, stands an 
old building known as the chapel. 

Originally consecrated to worship, the 
structure had. at the time of which we 
write, fallen into disuse. It was so damp 
that it would not even serve as an arsenal 
for an artillery regiment, for the guns 
rusted there more quickly than in the 


194 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


open air. A black mold covered the walls 
to a height of six or seven feet. 

This was the place selected by the 
Duke de Sairmcuse and the Marquis de 
Courtornieu for the assembling of the 
military commission. 

On first entering it, Maurice and the 
abbe felt a cold chill strike to their very 
hearts; and an indefinable anxiety par- 
alyzed all their faculties. 

But the commission had not yet com- 
menced its seance ; and they had time to 
look about them. 

The arrangements which had been 
made in transforming this gloomv hall 
into a tribunal, attested the precipitancy 
of the judges and their determination to 
finish their work promptly and merci- 
lessly. 

The arrangements denoted an absence 
of all form ; and one could divine at once 
the frightful certainty of the result. 

Three large tables taken from the mess 
room, and covered with horse-blankets 
instead of tapestry, stood upon the plat- 
form. Some unpainted wooden chairs 
awaited the judges; but in the centre 
glittered the president's chair, a superbly 
carved and gilded fauteuil. sent by the 
Duke de Sairmeuse. 

Several wooden benches had been pro- 
vided for the prisoners. ‘ 

Ropes stretched from one wall to the 
other divided the chapel into two parts. 
It was a precaution against the public. 

A superfluous precaution, alas ! 

The abbe and Maurice had expected to 
find the crowd too great for the hall, 
large as it was, and they found the chapel 
almost unoccupied. 

There were not twenty persons in the 
building. Standing back in the shadow 
of the wall were perhaps a dozen men, 
pale and gloomy, a sullen fire smoldering 
in their eyes, their teeth tightly clenched. 
They were army officers retired on half 
pay. Three men, attired in black, were 
conversing in low tones near the door. 
In a corner stood several country-women 
with their aprons over their faces. They 
were weeping bitterly, and their sobs 
alone broke the silence. They were the 
mothers, wives, or daughters of the ac- 
cused men. 

Nine o’clock sounded. The rolling of 
the drum made the panes of the only win- 
dow tremble. A loud voice outside 
shouted, “Present arms!” The military 
commission entered, followed by the 
Marquis de Courtornieu and several civil 
functionaries. 

The duke was in full uniform, his face 
a little more crimson, and his air a trifle 
more haughty than usual. 

“The session is open !” pronounced the 
Duke de Sairmeuse, the president. 

.Then, in a rough voice, he added: 

‘‘Bring in the culprits.” 


He had not even the grace to say “the 
accused.” 

They came in, one by one, to the num- 
ber of twenty, and took their places on 
the benches at the foot of the platform. 

Chanlouineau held his head proudly 
erect, and looked composedly about him. 

Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave ; 
but not more so than when, in daj r s gone 
by, he had been called upon to express 
his opinion in the councils of the empire. 

Both saw Maurice, who was so over- 
come that he had to lean upon the abbe 
for support. But while the baron greeted 
his son with a simple bend of the head, 
Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly 
signified : 

“Have confidence in me — fear nothing.” 

The attitude of the other prisoners be- 
trayed surprise rather than fear. Perhaps 
hey were unconscious of the peril they 
had braved, and the extent of the danger 
that now threatened them. 

When the prisoners had taken their 
places, the chief counsel for the prosecu- 
tion rose. 

His presentation of the case was char- 
acterized by intense violence, but lasted 
only five minutes. He briefly narrated 
the facts, exalted the merits of the gov- 
ernment, of the Restoration, and con- 
cluded by a demand that sentence of 
death should be pronounced upon the 
culprits. 

When he ceased speaking, the duke, ad- 
dressing the first prisoner upon the 
bench, said, rudely : 

“Stand up..” 

The prisoner rose. 

“Your name and age?” 

“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau, aged 
twenty-nine, farmer by occupation.” 

“An owner of national lands, proba- 
bly?” 

“The owner of lands which, having 
been paid for with good money and made 
fertile by labor, are rightfully mine.” 

The duke did not wish to waste time on 
discussion. 

“You have taken part in this rebellion?” 
he pursued. 

“Yes.” 

“You are right in avowing it, for wit- 
nesses will be introduced who will prove 
this fact conclusively.” 

Five grenadiers entered ; they were the 
men whom Chanlouineau had held at bay 
while Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne 
were entering the carriage. 

These soldiers declared upon oath that 
they recognized the accused ; and one of 
them even went so far as to pronounce 
a glowing eulogium upon him, declaring 
him to be a solid fellow, of remarkable 
courage. 

Chanlouineau' s eyes during this depo- 
sition betrayed an agony of anxiety. 
Would the soldiers allude to this circum- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


195 


stance of the carnage? No; they did 
not al ude to it. 

“That is sufficient,” interrupted the 
president. 

Then t urning to Chnnlouineau : 

“What were your motives?” he in- 
quired. 

“We hoped to free ourselves from a 
government imposed upon us by foreign- 
ers; to free ourselves from the inso- 
lence of the nobility, and to retain the 
lands that were justly ours.” 

Enough! You were one of the lead- 
ers of the revolt?” 

“One of the leaders — yes.” 

“Who were the others?” 

“A faint smile flitted over the lips of 
the young farmer, as he replied : 

“The others were M. Lacheneur. his 
son Jean, and the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse.” 

The duke bounded from his gilded 
arm-chair. 

“Wretch!” he exclaimed, “rascal! vile 
scoundrel!” 

He caught up a heavy inkstand that 
stood upon the table before him: and 
one would have supposed that he was 
about to hurl it at the prisoner's head. 

Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved 
in the midst of the assembly, which was 
excited to the highest pitch by his start- 
ling declaration. 

“You questioned me,” he resumed, 
“and I replied. You may gag me if my 
responses do not please you. If there 
were witnesses for me as there are 
against me, I could prove the truth of 
my words. As it is, all the prisoners 
here will tell you that I am speaking the 
truth. Is it not so, you others?” 

With the exception of Baron d'Escor- 
val. there was not one prisoner who was 
capable of understanding the real bear- 
ing of these audacious allegations; but 
all, nevertheless, nodded their assent. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so 
truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring 
peasant, “that he was wounded b 3 r a 
sabre-thrust while fighting by my side.” 

The face of the duke was more purple 
than that of a man struck with apoplexy ; 
and his fury almost deprived him of the 
power of speech. 

“You lie, scoundrel? you lie!” he 
gasped. 

“Send for the marquis,” said Chan- 
louineau, tranquilly, “and see whether or 
not he is wounded.” 

A refusal on the part of the duke could 
not fail to arouse suspicion. But what 
could he do? Martial had concealed his 
wound the day before ; it was now im- 
possible to confess that he had been 
wounded. 

Fortunately for the duke, one of the 
judges relieved him of his embarrass- 
ment. 

“1 hope, monsieur, that you will not 


give this arrogant rebel the satisfaction he 
desires. The commission opposes his 
demand.” 

Chanlouineau laughed loudly. 

“Very naturally,” he exclaimed. “To- 
morrow my head will be off. and you 
think nothing will then remain to prove 
what I say. I have another proof, for- 
tunately — material and indestructible 
proof — which it is beyond your power to 
destroy, and which will speak when my 
body is six feet under ground.” 

“What is this proof?” demanded an- 
other judge upon whom the duke looked 
askance. 

The prisoner shook his head. 

“I will give it to you when you offer 
me my life in exchange for it,” he re- 
plied. “It is now in the hands of a 
trusty person, who knows its value. It 
will go to the king if necessary. We 
would like to understand the part which 
the Marquis de Sairmeuse has played in 
this affair — whether he was truly with 
us, or whether he was only an instigat- 
ing agent.'’ 

A tribunal regardful of the immutable 
rules of justice, or even of its own honor, 
would, by virtue of its discretionary 
powers, have instantly demanded the 
presence of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. 

But the military commission consid- 
ered such a course" quite beneath its dig- 
nity. 

These men arrayed in gorgeous uni- 
forms were not judges charged with the 
vindication of a cruel law, but still a 
law — they were the instruments commis- 
sioned by the conquerors to strike the 
vanquished in the name of that savage 
code which may be summoned up in two 
words : “vae victis .” 

The president, the noble Duke de Sair- 
meuse, would n >t have consented to 
summon Martial on any consideration. 
Nor did his associate judges wish him 
to do so. 

Had Chanlouineau forseen this? 
Probably. Yet, why had he ventured 
so hazardous a blow. 

The tribunal, after a short deliberation, 
decided that it would not admit this tes- 
timony which had so excited the audi- 
epce, and stupefied Maurice and Abbe 
Midon. 

The examination was continued, there- 
fore, with increased bitterness. 

“Instead of designating imaginary 
leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would 
do well to name the real instigator of this 
revolt — not Lacheneur, but an individual 
seated upon the other end of the bench, 
the elder d'Escorval ” 

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was en- 
tirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I swear 
it by all that I hold most sacred ” 

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the 
counsel for the prosecution. “Instead of 
wearying the patience of the commis- 


ICG 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


don simh ridiculous stories, try to 
merit its indulgence.” 

Chanlouineau's glance and gesture ex- 
pressed such disdain that the man who 
interrupted him was abashed. 

“I wish no indulgence,” he said. “I 
Jiave played, I have lost; here is my 
head. But if you were not more cruel 
than wild beasts you would take pity on 
the poor wretches who surround me. I 
see at least ten among them who were 
not our accomplices, and who certainly 
did not take up arms. Even the others 
did not know what they were doing. No, 
they did not !” 

Having spoken, he resumed his seat, 
proud, indifferent, and apparently oblivi- 
ous to the murmur which ran through 
the audience, the soldiers of the guard 
and even to the platform, at the sound of 
his vibrant voice. 

The despair of the poor peasant 
women had been reawakened, and their 
sobs and moans filled the immense hall. 

The retired officers had grown even 
more pale and gloomy; and tears 
streamed down the wrinkled cheeks of 
several. 

‘‘That one is a man!” they were think- 
ing. 

The abbe leaned over and whispered 
in the ear of Maurice : 

“Evidently Chanlouineau has some 
plan. He intends to save your father. 
How, I cannot understand.” 

The judges were conversing in low 
tones with considerable animation. 

A difficulty had presented itself. 

The prisoners, ignorant of the charges 
which would be brought against them, 
and not expecting instant trial, had not 
thought of procuring a defender. 

And this circumstance, bitter mockery ! 
frightened this iniquitous tribunal, which 
did not fear to trample beneath its feet 
the most sacred rules of justice. 

The judges had decided ; their verdict 
was, as it were, rendered in advance, and 
yet they wished to hear a voice raised in 
defense of those who were already 
doomed. 

It chanced that three lawyers, retained 
by the friends of several of the prisoners, 
were in the hall. 

They were the three men that Maurice, 
on his entrance, had noticed conversing 
near the door of the chapel. 

The duke was informed of this fact. 
He turned to them, and motioned them 
to approach ; then, pointing to Chanloui- 
neau : 

“Will you undertake this culprit’s de- 
fense?” he demanded. 

For a moment the lawyers made no re- 
sponse. This monstrous seance had 
aroused a storm of indignation and dis- 
gust within their breasts, and they looked 
questioning at each other. 

“We are all disposed to undertake the 


iprisoner’s defense,” at last replied the 
eldest of the three; “but we see him for 
the first time; we are ignorant ot Ids 
grounds of defense. He must ask a de- 
lay ; it is indispensable, in order to con- 
fer with him.” 

“The court can grant you no delay,” 
interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will you 
accept the defense, yes, or no?” 

The advocate hesitated, not that he 
was afraid, for he was a brave man : but 
he was endeavoring to find some argu- 
ment strong enough to trouble the con- 
science of these judges. 

“I will speak in his behalf,” said the 
advocate, at last, “but not without first 
protesting with all my strength against 
these unheard of modes of procedure.” 

“Oh ! spare us your homilies, and be 
brief.” 

After Chanlouineau's examination, it 
was difficult to improvise there, on the 
spur of the moment, a plea in his behalf. 
Still, his courageous advocate, in his in- 
dignation, presented a score of arguments 
which would have made any other tribu- 
nal reflect. 

But all the while he was speaking the 
Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his gilded 
arm-chair with every sign of angry impa- 
tience. 

“The plea was very long,” he re- 
marked, w hen the lawyer had concluded, 
“terribly long. We shall never get 
through with this business if each prison- 
er takes up as much time !” 

He turned to his colleagues as if to con- 
sult them, but suddenly changing his 
mind he propoed to the prosecuting coun- 
sel that he should unite all the cases, try 
all the culprits in a body, with the ex- 
ception of the elder D’Escorval. 

“This will shorten our task, for, in case 
we adopt this course, there will be but 
two judgments to be pronounced,” he 
said. “This will not of course, prevent 
each individual from defending himself.” 

The lawyers protested against this. A 
judgment, in a lump, like that suggested 
by the duke, would destroy all hope of 
saving a single one of these unfortunate 
men from the guillotine. 

“How can we defend them,” the law- 
yers pleaded, “when w r e know nothing 
of the situation of each of the prisoners? 
we do not even know their names. We 
shall be obliged to designate them by the 
cut of their coats and by the color of 
their hair.” 

They implored the tribunal to grant 
them a week for preparation, four days, 
even twenty-four hours. Futile efforts ! 
The president’s proposition was adopted. 

Consequently, each prisoner w r as called 
to the desk according to the places which 
he occupied upon the benches. Each 
man gave his name, his age, his abode, 
and his profession, and received an order 
to return to his place. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


197 


Six or seven prisoners were actually) “Whatever happens, watch over Mau- 
granted time to say that they were abso- rice; restrain him. Do not allow him to 


lutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and 
that they had been arrested while con- 
versing quietly upon the public highway. 
They begged to be allowed to furnish 
proof of the truth of their assertions — 
they invoked the testimony of the sol- 
diers who had arrested them. 

M. d'Escorval, whose case had been 
separated from the others, was not sum- 
moned to the desk. He would be inter- 
rogated last. 

“Now the counsel for the defense will 
be heard,” said the duke; “but make 
haste ; lose no time 1 It is already twelve 
o'clock.” 

Then began a shameful, revolting and 
unheard of scene. The duke interrupted 
the lawyers every other moment, bidding 
them be silent, questioning them, or jeer- 
ing at them. 

“It seems incredible,” said he, “that 
any one can think of defending such 
wretches !” 

Or again: 

“Silence! You should blush with 
shame for having constituted yourself 
the defender of such rascals !” 

But the lawyers persevered even while 
they realized the utter uselessness of 
their efforts. But what could they do 
under such circumstances ? The defense 
of these twenty-nine prisoners lasted only 
one hour and a half. 

Before the last word was fairly uttered, 
the Duke de Sairmeuse gave a sigh of re- 
lief, and in a tone which betrayed his 
delight, said : 

“Prisoner Escorval, stand up.” 

Thus called upon, the baron rose, calm 
and dignified. Terrible as his sufferings 
must have been, there was no trace of it 
upon his noble face. 

He had even repressed the smile of dis- 
dain which the duke's paltry affection in 
not giving him the title which belonged 
to him, brought to his lips. 

But Chanlouineau sprang up at the 
same time, trembling with indignation, 
his face all aglow with anger. 

“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, 
“or you shall be removed from the court- 
room. 

Chanlouineau, nevertheless, declared 
that he would speak : that he had some 
remarks to add to the plea made by the 
defending counsel. 

Upon a sign from the duke, two gen- 
darmes approached and placed their hands 
upon his shoulders. He allowed them to 
force him back into his seat, though he 
could easily have crushed them with one 
pressure of his brawny arm. 

An observer would have supposed that 
he was furious; secretly, he was de- 
lighted. The aim he had had in view 
was now attained. In the glance he cast 
upon the abbe, the latter could read : 


defeat my plans by any outbreak.” 

This caution was not unnecessary. Mau- 
rice was terribly agitated ; he could not 
see, he felt that he whs suffocating, that 
he was losing his reason. 

“Where is the self-control you prom- 
ised me?” murmured the priest. 

But no one observed the young man's 
condition. The attention was rapt, 
breathless. So profound was the silence 
that the measued tread of the sentinels 
without could be distinctly heard. 

Each person present felt that the deci- 
sive moment for which the tribunal had 
reserved all its attention and efforts had 
come. 

To convict and condemn the poor peas- 
ants, of whom no one would think twice, 
was a mere trifle. But to bring low an 
illustrious man who had been the coun- 
sellor and faithful friend of the emperor ! 
What glory, and what an opportunity 
for the ambitious. 

The instinct of the audience spoke the 
truth. If the tribunal had acted infor- 
mally in the case of the obscure conspir- 
ators, it had carefully prepared its suit 
against the baron. 

Thanks to the activity of the Marquis 
de Courtornieu, the prosecution had 
found seven charges against the baron, 
the least grave of which was punishable 
by death. 

“Which of you,” demanded M. de Sair- 
meuse, 
culprit?” 

“I !” exclaimed three advocates, in a 
breath. 

“Take care,” said the duke, with a 
malicious smile; “the task is — not light.” 

“Not light!” It wouid have been bet- 
ter to say dangerous. It would have 
been better to say that the defender 
risked his career, his peace and his liberty, 
very probably — his life. 

“Our profession has its exigencies,” 
nobly replied the oldest of the advocates. 

And the three courageously took their 
places beside the baron, thus avenging 
the honor of their robe which had just 
been miserably sullied, in a city where, 
among more than a hundred thousand 
souls, two pure and innocent victims of 
a furious reaction had not — oh, shame ! — 
been able to find a defender. 

“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, 
“state your name and profession.” 

“Louis Guillaume, Baron d'Escorval, 
Commander of the Order of the Legion 
of Honor, formerly Councillor of State 
under the Empire.” 

“So you avow these shameful services? 
You confess ” 

“Pardon, monsieur; I am proud of 
having had the honor of serving my 
country, and of being useful to her in 
proportion to my ability ” 


“will consent to defend this great 


198 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


With a furious gesture the duke inter- 
rupted him. 

'■‘That is excellent!” he exclaimed. 
“•These gentlemen, the commissioners, 
will appreciate that. It was, undoubt- 
edly, in the hope of regaining your for- 
mer position that you entered into a con- 
spiracy against a magnanimous prince 
with these vile wretches !” 

“These peasants are not vile wretches, 
but misguided men, monsieur. More- 
over, you know — yes, you know as w r ell 
as I do myself — that I have had no hand 
in this conspiracy.” 

“You were arrested in the ranks of the 
conspirators with weapons in your 
hands !” 

“I was unarmed, monsieur, as you are 
w T ell aware; and if I was among the 
peasantry, it was only because I hoped 
to induce them to relmguish then* sense- 
less enterprise.” 

“You lie!” 

The baron paled beneath the insult, 
but he made no reply. 

There was, however, one man in the 
assemblage who could no longer endure 
this horrible and abominable injustice, 
and this man was Abbe Midon, w ho, only 
a moment before, had advised Maurice 
to be calm. 

He brusquely quitted his place, and 
advanced to the foot of the platform. 

“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the 
truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice : “the 
three hundred prisoners in the citadel 
will swear to it, these prisoners here 
would say the same if they stood upon 
the guillotine; and I, who accompanied 
him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, 
swear before the God who will judge 
all men, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I swear 
that all which it was in human power to 
do to arrest this movement we have 
done !” 

The duke listened with an ironical 
smile. 

“They did not deceive me then, when 
they told me that this army of rebels had 
a chaplain ! Ah ! monsieur, you should 
sink to the earth with shame. You, a 
priest, mingle with such scoundrels as 
these — with these enemies of our good 
king and of our holy religion! Do not 
deny this ! Your haggard features, your 
swollen eyes, your disordered attire soiled 
with dust and mud betray your guilt. 
Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is 
due your sacred calling? Hold your 
peace, monsieur, and depart!” 

The counsel for the prisoner sprang up. 

“W e demand.” they cried, “that this 
witness be heard. He must be heard ! 
Military commisions are not above the 
laws that regulate ordinary tribunals-” 

“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed 
the abbe, “I am a perjured witness. worse 
yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in 
that case, to have me arrested.” 


The duke’s face expressed a hypocriti- 
cal compassion. 

“No, Monsieur le Cure,” said he, “I 
shall not arrest you. I w r ould avert the 
scandal which you are trying to cause. 
We will show your priestly garb the re- 
spect the wearer does not deserve. Again, 
and for the last time, retire, or I shall be 
obliged to employ force.” 

What would further resistance avail? 
Nothing. The abbe, w r ith a face whiter 
than the plastered walls, and eyes filled 
with tears, came back to his place beside 
Maurice. 

The lawyers, meanwhile, were uttering 
their protests with increasing energy. 
But the duke, by a prolonged hammering 
upon the table with his fists, at last suc- 
ceeded in reducing them to silence. 

“Ah! you wish testimony!” he ex- 
claimed. “Very well, you shall have it. 
Soldiers, bring in the first witness.” 

A movement among the guards, and 
almost immediately Chupin appeared. 
He advanced deliberately, but his coun- 
tenance betrayed him. A close observer 
could have read his anxiety and his terror 
in his eyes, which wandered restlessly 
about the room. 

And there was a very appreciable ter- 
ror in his voice when, with hand uplifted, 
he swore to tell the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth. 

“What do you know regarding the 
prisoner d’Escorval?” demanded the 
duke. 

“I know that he took part in the rebel- 
lion on the night of the fourth.” 

“Are you sure of this?” 

“I can furnish proofs.” 

“Submit them to the consideration of 
the commission.” 

The old scoundrel began to gain more 
confidence. 

“First,” he replied, “it w r as to the 
house >of M. d'Escorval that Lacheneur 
hastened after he had, much against his 
will, restored to M. le Due the chateau of 
M. le Due's ancestors. M. Lacheneur 
met Chanlotiineau there, and from that 
day dates the plot of this insurrection. 

*T was Lacheneur’s friend,” said the 
baron ; “it was perfectly natural that he 
should come to me for consolation after 
a great misfortune*” 

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his col- 
league. 

“You hear that!” said he. “This 
D’Escorval calls the restitution of a de- 
posit a great misfortune! Go on, wit- 
ness.” 

“In the second place,” resumed Chu- 
pin, “the accused was always prowling 
about Lacheneur’s house.” 

“That is false,” interrupted the baron. 
“I never visited the house but once, and 
on that occasion I implored him to re- 
nounce.” 

He paused, comprehending only when 


MONSIEUR, LECOQ. 


199 


i: was too late, the terrible significance 
ol his words. But having begun, he 
would not retract, and he added : 

“I implored him to renounce this pro- 
j ct of an insurrection.” 

“Ah! then you knew his wicked in- 
tentions?” 

“I suspected them.” 

“Not to reveal a conspiracy, makes one 
an accomplice, and means the guillotine.” 

Baron d'Escorval had just signed his 
death-warrant. 

Strange caprice of destiny! He was 
innocent, and yet he was the only one 
among the accused whom a regular tri- 
bunal could have legally condemned. 

Maurice and the abbe were prostrated 
with grief ; but Chanlouineau, who turned 
towards them, had still upon his lips a 
smile of confidence. 

How could he hope when all hope 
seemed absolutely lost? 

But the commissioners made no at- 
tempt to conceal their satisfaction. M. 
de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an in- 
decent joy. 

“Ah, well! messieurs?” he said to the 
lawyers, in a sneering tone. 

The counsel for the defense poorly dis- 
simulated their discouragement ; but they 
nevertheless endeavored to question the 
validity of such a declaration on the part 
of their client. He had said that he sus- 
pected the conspiracy, not that he knew it. 
It was quite a different thing. 

“Say at once that you wish still more 
overwhelming evidence,” interrupted the 
duke. “Very well! You shall have it. 
Continue your deposition, witness.” 

“The accused,” continued Chupin, 
“was present at all the conferences held 
at Lacheneur’s house. The proof of this 
is as clear as day-light. Being obliged to 
cross the Oiselle to reach the Reche, and 
fearing the ferryman would notice his 
frequent nocturnal voyages, the baron 
had an old boat repaired which he had 
not used for years.” 

“Ah! that is a remarkable circum- 
stance, prisoner ; do you recollect having 
j’-our boat repaired?” 

“Yes; but not for the purpose which 
this man mentions.” 

“For what purpose, then?” 

The baron made no response. Was it 
not in compliance with the request of 
Maurice that the boat had been put in 
order? 

“And finally,” continued Chupin, 
“when Lacheneur set fire to his house to 
give the signal for the insurrection, the 
prisoner was with him.” 

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is con- 
clusive evidence.” 

“It was, indeed, at the Reche,” inter- 
rupted the baron; “but it was, as I have 
already told you, with the firm determin- 
ation of preventing this outbreak.” 


M. de Sairmeuse gave utterance to a 
little disdainful laugh. 

“Ah, gentlemen !” he said, addressing 
the commissioners, “can you not see that 
the prisoner’s courage does not equal his 
depravity? But I will confound him. 
What did you do, prisoner, when the in- 
surgents left the Reche?” 

“1 returned to my home? with all possi- 
ble haste, took a horse and repaired to 
the Croix-d’Arcy.” 

“Then you knew that this was the spot 
appointed for the general rendezvous?” 

“Lacheneur had just informed me.” 

“If I believed your story, I should tell 
you that it was your duty to have has- 
tened to Montaignac and informed the 
authorities. But what you say is untrue. 
You did not leave Lacheneur, you ac- 
companied him.” 

“No, monsieur, no !” 

And what if I could prove this fact 
beyond all question?” 

“Impossible, monsieur, since such was 
not the case.” 

By the malicious satisfaction that 
lighted M. de Sairmeuse's face, the abbe 
knew that this wicked judge had some 
terible weapon in his hands, and that 
baron d’Escorval was about to be over- 
whelmed by one of those fatal coinci- 
dences which explain, although they do 
not justify, judicial errors. 

At a sign from the counsel for the pros- 
ecution, the Marquis de Courtornieu left 
his seat and came forward to the plat- 
form. 

“I must request you, Monsieur le Mar- 
quis,” said the duke, “to have the good- 
ness to read to the commission the depo- 
sition written and signed by your daugh- 
ter.” 

This scene must have been prepared in 
advance for the audience. M. de Cour- 
tornieu cleaned his glasses, drew from 
his pocket a paper which he unfolded, 
and amid a death-like silence, he read : 

“I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare 
upon oath that, on the evening of the 
fourth of February, between ten and 
eleven o'clock, on the public road lead- 
ing from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was 
assailed by a crowd of armed brigands. 
While they were deliberating as to wheth- 
er they should take possession of my 
person and pillage my carriage, I over- 
heard one of these men say to another, 
speaking of me : ‘She must get out, must 
she not, M. d’Escorval?’ I believe that 
the brigand who uttered these wor Is was 
a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I 
dare not assert it on oath.” 

A terrible cry, followed by inarticulate 
moans, interrupted the marquis. 

The suffering which Maurice endured 
was too great for his strength and his 
reason. He was about to spring forward 
and cry : 

“It was I who addressed those words 


200 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


to Chanlouineau. I alone am guilty ; my 
father is innocent !” 

But fortunately the abbe had the pres- 
ence of mind to hold him back, and place 
his hand over the poor youth's lips. 

But the priest would not have been 
able to restrain Maurice without the aid 
of the retired army officers, who were 
standing beside him. 

Divining all, perhaps, they surrounded 
Maurice, took him up, and carried him 
from the room by main force, in spite of 
his violent resistance. 

All this occupied scarcely ten seconds. 

u What is the cause of this disturbance !” 
inquired the duke, looking angrily over 
the audience. 

No one uttered a word. 

“At the least noise the hall sha 1 be 
cleared,” added M. de Sairmeuse. And 
you. prisoner, what have you to say in 
self-justification, after this crushing ac- 
cusation by Mile. deCourtornieu?” 

“Nothing,” murmured the baron. 

“So you confess your guilt?'’ 

Once outside, the abbe confided Mau- 
rice to the care of three officers, who 
promised to go with him, to carry him 
by main force, if need be, to the hotel, 
and keep him there. 

Relieved on this score, the priest re-en- 
tered the hall just in time to see the baron 
seat himself without making any response 
thus indicating that he had relinquished 
all intention of defending his life. 

Really, what could he say ? How could 
he defend himself without betraying his 
son? 

Until now there had not been one per- 
son who did not believe in the baron's 
entire innocence. Could it be that he 
was guilty ? His silence must be accepted 
as a confession of guilt ; at least, some 
present believed so. 

Baron d’Escorval appeared to be guilty. 
Was that not a sufficiently great victory 
for the Duke de Sairmeuse? 

He turned to the lawyers, and with an 
air of weariness and disdain he said : 

“Now speak, since it is absolutely neces- 
sary; but no long phrases! We should 
have finished here an hour ago.” 

The oldest lawyer rose, trembling with 
indignation, ready to dare anything for 
the sake of giving free utterance to his 
thought, but the baron checked him. 

“Do not try to defend me,” he said, 
calmly; “it would be labor wasted. I 
have only a word to say to my judges. 
Let them remember what the noble and 
generous Marshal Moncey wrote to the 
king : ‘The scaffold does not make 

friends.’ ” 

This recollection was not of a nature 
to soften the hearts of the judges. The 
marshal, for that saying, had been de- 
prived of his office, and condemned to 
three months’ imprisonment. 

As the advocates made no futher at- 


tempt to argue the case, the commission 
retired to deliberate. This gave M. d'Es- 
corval an opportunity to speak with his 
defenders. He shook them warmly by 
the hand, and thanked them for their de- 
votion and for their courage. 

The good man wept. 

Then the baron, turning to the oldest 
among them, quickly and in a low voice 
said : 

“I have a last favor to ask of you. 
When the sentence of death shall have 
been pronounced upon me, go at once to 
my son. You will say to him that his dying 
father commands him to live — he will un- 
derstand you. Tell him it is my last 
wish ; that he live — live for his mother!’’ 

He said no more ; the judges were re- 
turning. 

Of the thirty prisoners, nine were de- 
clared not guilty, and released. 

The remaining twenty-one, and M. 
d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were among 
the number, were condemned to death. 

But the smile had not once forsaken 
Chanlouineau’ s lips. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

The abbe had been right in feeling he 
could trust the officers to whose care he 
had confided Maurice. 

Finding their entreaties would not 
induce him to leave the citadel, they 
seized him and literally carried him away. 
He made the most desperate efforts to es- 
cape : each step was a struggle. 

“Leave me !” he exclaimed ; “let me go 
where duty calls me. You only dishonor 
me in pretending to save me.” 

His agony was terrible. He had thrown 
himself headlong into this absurd under- 
taking. and now the responsibility of his 
acts had fallen upon his father. He, the 
culprit, would live, and his innocent 
father would perish on the guillotine. 
It was to this, his love for Marie-Anne had 
led him, that radiant love which in other 
days had smiled so joyously. 

But our capacity for suffering has its 
limits. 

When they had carried him to the room 
in the hotel where his mother and Marie- 
Anne were waiting in agonized surprise, 
that irresistible torpor which follows 
suffering too intense for human endurance, 
crept over him. 

“Nothing is decided yet,” the officers 
answered in response to Mme. d’Escor- 
val’s questions. “The cure will hasten 
here as soon as the verdict is rendered.” 

Then, as they had promised not to 
lose sight of Maurice, they seated them- 
selves in gloomy silence. 

The house was silent. One might have 
supposed the hotel deserted. At last, a 
little before four o clock, the abbe came 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


201 


m. followed by the lawyer to whom the 
baron had confided his last wishes. 

“My husband!” exclaimed Mine. d’Es- 
corval, springing wildly from her chair. 

The priest bowed his head; she un- 
derstood. 

“Death!” she faltered. “They have 
condemned him !” 

And overcome by the terrible blow, 
she sank back, inert, with hanging arms. 

But the weakness did not last long; 
she again sprang up, her eyes brilliant 
with heroic resolve. 

“We must save him!” she exclaimed. 
“We must wrest him from the scaffold. 
Up, Maurice ! up, Marie-Anne ! No more 
weak lamentations, we must to work ! 
You, also, gentlemen, will aid me. I can 
count upon your assistance, Monsieur le 
Cure. What are we going to do? I 
do not know! But something must be 
done. The death of this just man would 
be too great a crime. God will not per- 
mit it.” 

She suddenly paused, with clasped 
hands, and eyes uplifted to heaven, as if 
seeking divine inspiration. t 

“And the king,” she resumed — “will 
the king consent to such a crime? No. 
A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot 
refuse justice. I will go to him. I will 
tell him all ! Why did not this thought 
come to me sooner? We must start for 
Paris without losing an instant. Maurice, 
you will accompany me. One of you 
gentlemen will go at once and order post- 
horses.” 

Thinking they would obey her, she 
hastened into the next room to make pre- 
parations for her journey. 

“Poor woman !” the lawyer whispered 
to the abbe, “she does not know that the 
sentence of a military commission is ex- 
ecuted in twenty-four hours.” 

“Well?” 

“It requires four days to make the 
journey to Paris.” 

He reflected a moment, then added : 

“But, after all, to let her go would be 
an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the 
morning of his execution, implore the 
king to order the removal of his wife 
who was sobbing and moaning in his 
cell. ’ 

The abbe shook his head. 

“No,” said he; “Mme. d'Escorval will 
never forgive us if we prevented her 
from receiving her husband's last fare- 
well.” 

She, at that very moment, re-entered 
the room, and the priest w^as trying to 
gather courage to tell her the cruel truth, 
when some one knocked violently at the 
door. 

One of the officers went to open it. and 
Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, 
entered, his right hand lifted to h s cap, 
as if he were in the presence of his 
superior officer. 


| “Is Mile. Laeheneur here?” he de- 
manded. 

Marie-Anne came forward. 

“I am she, monsieur,” she replied; 
“what do you desire of me?” 

“I am ordered, mademoiselle, to con- 
duct you to the citadel.” 

“Ah ! exclaimed Maurice, in a ferocious 
tone; “so they imprison women also!” 

The worthy corporal struck himself a 
heavy blow upon the forehead. 

“Iam an old stupid!” he exclaimed, 
“and express myself badly. I meant to 
say that I came to seek mademoiselle at 
the request of one of the condemned, a 
man named Chanlouineau, w ho desires to 
speak with her.” 

“Impossible, my good man,” said one 
of the officers; “they wnuld not allow 
this ladj r to visit one of the condemned 
without special permission ” 

“Well, she has this permission,” said 
the old soldier. 

Assuring himself, with a glance, that 
he had nothing to fear from any one 
present, he added, in lower tones : 

“This Chanlouineau told me that the 
cure wnuld understand his reasons.” 

Had the brave peasant really found 
some means of salvation. The abbe al- 
most began to believe it. 

“You must go with this worthy man, 
Marie-Anne,” said he. 

The poor girl shuddered at the thought 
of seeing Chanlouineau again, but the 
idea of refusing never once occurred to 
her. 

“Let us go,” she said, quietly. 

But the corporal did not stir from his 
place, and winking, according to his 
habit when he desired to attract the 
attention of his hearers : 

“In one moment,” he said. “This 
Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd 
fellow, told me to tell you that all was 
going w r ell. May I be hung if I can see 
how ! Still such is his opinion. He also 
told me to tell you not to stir from this 
place, and not to attempt anything until 
mademoiselle returns, which will be in 
less than an hour. He swears to you 
that he will keep his promise ; he only 
asks you to pledge your word that you 
will obey him ” 

“We will take no action until an hour 
has pas-ed,” said the abbe. “I promise 
that ” 

“That is all. Salute company. And 
now, mademoiselle, on the double-quick, 
march ! The poor devil over there must 
be on coals of fire.” 

That a condemned prisoner should be 
allowed to receive a visit from the daugh- 
ter of the leader of the rebellion — of that 
Laeheneur who had succeeded in making 
his escape — was indeed surprising. 

But Chanlouineau had been ingenious 
enough to discover a means of procuring 
this special permission. 


202 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


With this aim in view, when sentence 
of death was passed upon him, he pre- 
tended to be overcome with terror, and 
to weep piteously. 

The soldiers could scarcely believe their 
eyes when they saw this robust young 
fellow, who had been so insolent and de- 
fiant a few hours before, so overcome 
that they were obliged to carry him to 
his cell. 

There, his lamentations were re- 
doubled; and he begged the guard to go 
to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu, and tell them he 
had revelations of the greatest import- 
ance to make. 

That potent word “revelations,” made 
M. de Courtornieu hasten to the prisoner's 
cell. 

He found Chanlouineau on his knees, 
his features distorted by what was appar- 
ently an agony of fear. The man 
dragged himself towards him, took his 
hands and kissed them, imploring mercy 
and forgiveness, swearing that to pre- 
serve his life he was ready to do any- 
thing, yes, anything, even to deliver up 
M. Lacheneur. 

To capture Lacheneur ! Such a pros- 
pect had powerful attractions for the 
Marquis de Courtornieu. 

“Do you know, then, where this 
brigand is concealed?” he inquired. 

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not 
know, but declared that Marie-Anne, 
Lacheneur's daughter, knew her father's 
hiding-place. She had, he declared, 
perfect confidence in him; and if they 
would only send for her, and allow him 
ten minutes private conversation with 
her, he was sure he could obtain the se- 
cret of her father’s place of conceal- 
ment. So the bargain was quickly con- 
cluded. 

The prisoner’s life was promised him 
in exchange for the life of Lacheneur. 

A soldier, who chanced to be Corporal 
Bavois, was sent to summon Marie- 
Anne. 

And Chanlouineau waited in terrible 
anxiety. No one had told him what had 
taken place at Escorval, but he divined it 
by the aid of that strange prescience 
which so often illuminates the mind 
when death is near at hand. 

He was almost certain that Mme. d'Es- 
corval was in Montaignac ; he was equal- 
ly certain that Marie-Anne was with her, 
and if she were, he knew that she would 
come. 

And he waited counting the seconds 
by the throbbings of his heart. 

He waited, understanding the cause of 
every sound without, distinguishing 
with the marvelous acuteness of senses 
excited to the highest pitch by passion, 
sounds which would have been inaudible 
to another person. 

At last, at the end of the corridor, he 


heard the rustling of a dress against the 
wall. 

“It is she,” he murmured. 

Footsteps approached ; the heavy bolts 
were drawn back, the door opened, and 
Marie-Anne entered, accompanied by 
Corporal Bavois. 

“M. de Courtornieu promised me that 
we should be left alone!” exclaimed 
Chanlouineau. 

“Therefore, I go at once,” replied the 
old soldier. “But I have orders to re- 
turn for mademoiselle in half an hour.” 

When the door closed behind the 
worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took 
Marie-Anne’s hand and drew her to the 
tiny grated window. 

“Thank you for coming,” said he 
“thank you. I can see you and speak to 
you once more. Now that my hours are 
numbered, I may reveal the secret of my 
soul and of my life. Now, I can venture 
to tell you how ardently I have loved 
you — how much I still love you.” 

Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away 
her hand and stepped back. 

This outburst of passion, at such a 
moment, seemed at once unspeakably sad 
and frightful. 

“Have I, then, offended you?” said 
Chanlouineau, sadly. “Forgive one who 
is about to die! You cannot refuse to 
listen to the voice of one, who after to- 
morrow, will have vanished from earth 
forever. 

“I have loved you for a long time, 
Marie-Anne, for more than six years. 
Before I saw you, I loved only my pos- 
sessions. To raise fine crops, and to 
amass a fortune, seemed to me, then, the 
greatest possible happiness here below. 

“Why did I meet you? But at that time 
you were so high, and I, so low, that 
never in my wildest dreams did I aspire 
to you. I went to church each Sunday 
only that I might worship you as peas- 
ant women worship the Blessed Virgin ; 
I went home with my eyes and my heart 
full of you — and that was all. 

“Then came the misfortune that 
brought us nearer to each other; and 
your father made me as insane, yes, as 
insane as himself. 

“After the insults he received from the 
Sairmeuse, your father resolved to re- 
venge himself upon these arrogant 
nobles, and he selected me for his accom- 
plice. He had read my heart. On leav- 
ing the house of Baron d’Escorval, on 
that Sunday evening, which you must 
remember, the compact that bound me to 
your father was made. 

“ ‘You love my daughter, my boy,’ 
said he. ‘Very well, aid me, and I prom- 
ise you. in case we succeed, she shall be 
your wife. Only,’ he added, -I must warn 
you that you hazard your life.’ ” 

“But what was life in comparison with 
the hope that dazzled me! From that 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


203 


night, I gave body, soul, and fortune to 
the cause. Others were influenced by 
hatred, or by ambition ; but I was actu- 
ated by neither of these motives. 

“What did the quarrels of the great 
matter to me — a simple laborer? I knew 
that the greatest were powerless to give 
my crops a drop of rain in season of 
drought, or a ray of sunshine during the 
rain. 

U I took part in this conspiracy because 
I loved you ” 

“Ah ! you are cruel !” exclaimed Marie- 
Anne, “you are pitiless I” 

It seemed to the poor girl that he was 
reproaching her for the horrible fate 
which Lacheneur had brought upon him, 
and for the terrible part which her father 
had imposed upon her, and which she 
had not been strong enough to refuse to 
perform. 

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard 
Marie-Anne’s exclamation. All the bit- 
terness of the past had mounted to his 
brain like fumes of alcohol. He was 
scarcely conscious of his own words. 

“But the day soon came,” he con- 
tinued, “when my foolish illusions were 
destroyed. You could not be mine since 
you belonged to another. I might have 
broken my compact ! I thought of doing 
so, but had not the courage. To see you, 
to hear your voice, to dwell beneath the 
same roof with you, was happiness. I 
longed to see you happy and honored ; I 
fought for the triumph of another, for 
him whom you had chosen ” 

A sob that had risen in his throat 
choked his utterance ; he buried his face 
in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a 
moment, seemed completely overcome. 

But he mastered his weakness after a 
little, and in a firm voice, he said : 

“We must not linger over the past. 
Time flies, and the future is ominous.” 

As he spoke, he went to the door and 
applied first his eye, then his ear to the 
opening, to see that there were no spies 
without. 

No one was in the corridor; he could 
not hear a sound. 

He came back to Marie-Anne's side, and 
tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with 
his teeth, he drew from it two letters, 
wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. 

“Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a 
man’s life !” 

Marie- Anne knew nothing of Chanloui- 
neau’s promises and hopes, and bewil- 
dered by her distress, she did not at first 
understand. 

“This,” she exclaimed, “is a man's 
life”’ 

“^ush, speak lower!” interrupted 
Chanlouineau. “Yes, one of these letters 
might, perhaps, save the life of one who 
has been condemned to death.” 

“Unfortunate man ! Why do you not 
make use of it and save yourself ?” 


The young man sadly shook his head. 

“Is it possible that you could ever love 
me?” he said, simply. “No, it is not. I 
have, therefore, no desire to live. Rest 
beneath the sod is preferable to the 
misery I am forced to endufe. More- 
over, I was justly condemned. I knew 
what I was doing when I left the Reche 
with my gun upon my shoulder, and my 
sword by my side; I have no right to 
complain. But those cruel judges have 
condemned an innocent man ” 

“Baron d’Escorval?” 

“Yes — the father of — Maurice!” 

His voice changed in uttering the name 
of this man, for whose happiness he 
would have given ten lives had they been 
his to give. 

“I wish to save him,” he added, “I can 
do it.” 

“Oh! if what you said were true? 
But you undoubtedly deceive yourself.” 

“I know what I am saying.'’ 

Fearing that some spy outside would 
overhear him, he came close to Marie- 
Anne and said rapidly, and in a low 
voice : 

“I never believed in the success of this 
conspiracy. When I sought for a weapon 
of defense in case of failure, the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse furnished it. When it 
became necessary to send a circular, 
warning our accomplices of the date de- 
cided upon for the uprising, I persuaded 
M. Martial to write a model. He sus- 
pected nothing. I told him it was for a 
wedding; he did what I asked. This 
letter, which is now in my possession, is 
the rough draft of the circular ; and it 
was written by the hand of the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse. It is impossible for iiim 
to deny it. There is an erasure on each 
line. Every one would regard it as the 
handiwork of a man who was seeking to 
convey his real meaning in ambiguous 
phrases. 

Chanlouineau opened the envelope and 
showed her the famous letter which he 
had dictated, and in which the space for 
the date of the insurrection was left 
blank. 

k *My dear friend, we are at last agreed, 
and the marriage is decided, etc.” 

The light that had sparkled in Marie- 
Anne's eye was suddenly extinguished. 

“And you believe that this letter can 
be of an}'- service?’’ she inquired, in evi- 
dent discouragement. 

•‘I do not think it !” 

“But ” 

With a gesture, he interrupted her. 

“We must not lose time in discussion 
— listen to me. Of itself, this letter 
might be unfmportant, but I have ar- 
ranged matters in such a way that it will 
produce a powerful effect. I declared 
before the commission that the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of 
the movement. They laughed; and I 


204 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


road incredulity on the faces of the 
judges. But calumny is never without 
its effect. When the Duke de Sairmeuse 
is about to receive a reward for his ser- 
vices, there will be enemies in plenty to 
remember* and to repeat my words. He 
knew this so well that he was great- 
ly agitated, even while his colleagues 
sneered at my accusation.” 

“To accuse a man falsely is a great 
crime.” murmured the honest Marie-Anne. 

“Yes, but I wish to save my friend, 
and I cannot choose my means. I was 
all the more sure of success as I knew 
that the marquis had been wounded. I 
declared that he was fighting against the 
troops by my side ; I demanded that he 
should be summoned before the tribunal ; 

I told them that I had in my possession 
unquestionable proofs of his complicity.” 

“Did you say that the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse had been wounded?” inquired 
Marie-Anne. 

Chanlouineau’s face betrayed the most 
intense astonishment. 

“What!” he exclaimed, “you do not 
know ” 

Then after an instant’s reflection : 

“Fool that I am !” he resumed. “Who 
could have told you what had happened? 
You remember that when we were trav- 
elling over the Sairmeuse road on our 
way to Croix-d'Arcy, and after your 
father had left us to ride on in advance, 
Maurice placed himself at the head of 
one division, and you walked beside him, 
while your brother Jean and myself staid 
behind to urge on the laggards. We 
were performing our duty conscien- 
tiously, when suddenly we heard the gal- 
lop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know 
who is coming,’ Jean said to me. 

“We paused. The horse soon reached 
us ; we caught the bridle and held him. 
Can you guess who the rider was ? Mar- 
tial de Sairmeuse. 

“To describe your brother's fury on 
recognizing the marquis would be im- 
possible.” 

“At last I find you, wretched noble !” 
he exclaimed, ‘and now we will settle 
our account ! After reducing my father, 
who has just given you a fortune, to 
despair and penury, you have tried to 
degrade my sister. I will have my re- 
venge ! Down, we must fight !’ ” 

Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether 
she was awake or dreaming. 

“My brother,” she murmured, “has 
challenged the marquis ! Is it possible?” 

“Brave as M. Martial is,” pursued Chan- 
louineau, “he did not seem inclined to 
accept the invitation. He stammered out 
something like this : ‘You are mad — you 
are jesting — have we not always been 
friends? What does this mean?’ 

“Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This 
means that we have endured your insult- 
ing familiarity long enough,’ he replied,! 


‘and if you do not dismount and meet me 
in open combat, I will blow your brains 
out !’ 

“Your brother, as he spoke, manipu- 
lated his pistol in so threatening a manner 
that the marquis dismounted, and ad- 
dressing me : 

“ ‘You see, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I 
must fight a duel or submit to assassina- 
tion. If Jean kills me there is no more to 
be said — but if I kill him, what is to be 
done?” 

“I told him he would be free to depart 
on condition he would give me his word 
not to return to Montaignac before two 
o'clock. 

“ ‘Then I accept the challenge,’ said 
he, ‘give me a weapon.’ # 

“I gave him my sword, your brother 
drew his, and they took their place’s in 
the middle of the highway.” 

The young farmer paused to take 
breath, then said, more slowly : 

“Marie-Anne, your father and I have 
misjudged your brother. Poor Jean’s 
appearance is terribly against him. His 
face indicates a treacherous, cowardly 
nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes 
always shun yours. We have distrusted 
him, but we should ask his pardon. A 
man who fights as I saw him fight, is 
deserving of confidence. For this com- 
bat in the public road, and in the dark- 
ness of the night, was terrible. They 
attacked each other silently but furiously. 
At last Jean fell.” 

“Ah ! my brother is dead !” exclaimed 
Marie-Anne. 

“No,” responded Chanlouineau; “at 
least we have reason to hope not ; and I 
know he has not lacked any attention. 
This duel had another witness, a man 
named Poignot, whom you must remem- 
ber ; he was one of your father’s tenants. 
He took Jean, promising me that he 
would conceal him and care for him. 

“As for the marquis, he showed me 
that he too was wounded, and then he 
remounted his horse, saying : 

“ ‘What could I do? He would have 
it so.’ ” 

Marie-Anne understood now. 

“Give me the letter,” she said to Chan- 
louineau, “I will go to the duke. I will 
find some way to reach him, and then 
God will tell me what course to pursue.” 

The noble peasant handed the girl the 
tiny scrap of paper which might have 
been his own salvation. 

“On no .account,” said he, “must you 
allow the duke to suppose that you have 
upon your person the proof with which 
you threaten him. Who knows of what 
he might be capable under such circum- 
stances? He will say, at first, that he 
can do nothing — that he sees no way to 
save the baron. You will tell him that he 
! must find a means, if he does not wish 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


205 


this letter sent to Paris, to one of his 
enemies ” 

lie paused ; he heard the grating of the 
holt. Corporal Bavois reappeared. 

‘‘The half-hour expired ten minutes 
ago,’- he said, sadly. “I have my orders.” 

“Coming,” said Chanlouineau; all is 
ended!” 

And handing Marie-Anne the second 
letter : 

“This is for you,” he added. “You 
will read it when I am no more. Pray, 
pray, do not weep thus ! Be brave ! You 
will soon be the wife of Maurice. And 
when you are happy, think sometimes of 
the poor peasant who loved you so 
much.” 

Marie-Anne cou’d not utter a word, 
but she lifted her face to his. 

“Ah ! I dared not ask it !” he exclaimed. 

And for the first time he clasped her in 
his arms and pressed his lips to her pallid 
cheek. 

“Now adieu,” he said once more. “Do 
not lose a moment. Adieu!” 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

The prospect of capturing Lacheneur. 
the chief conspirator, excited the Marquis 
de Courtornieu so much that he had not 
been able to tear himself away from the 
citadel to return home to his dinner. 

Remaining near the entrance of the 
dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau’s 
cell, he watched Marie-Anne depart ; but 
as he saw her go out into the twilight 
with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden 
doubt of Chanlouineau's sincerity. 

“Can it be that this miserable peasant 
has deceived me?” he thought. 

So strong was this suspicion that he 
hastened after her, determined to ques- 
tion her — to ascertain the truth — to arrest 
her, if necessary. 

But he no longer possessed the agility 
of youth, and when he reached the gate- 
way the guard told him that Mile. Lache- 
neur had already passed out. He rushed 
out after her, looked about on every side, 
but could see no trace of her. He re-en- 
tered the citadel, furious with himself for 
his own credulity. 

“ Still, I can visit Chanlouineau,” 
thought he, “ and to-morrow will be time 
enough to summon this creature and 
question her.” 

“This creature” was even then has- 
tening up the long, ill-paved street that 
led to the Hotel de France. 

Regardless of self, and of the curious 
gaze of a few passers-by, she ran on, 
thinking only of shortening the terrible 
anxiety which her friends at the hotel 
must be enduring. 

“Allis not lost!” she exclaimed, on, 
re-enter. ng the room. I 


“My God, Thou hast heard my pray- 
ers !” murmured the baroness. 

Then, suddenly seized by a horrible 
dread, she added : 

“Do not attempt to deceive me. Are 
} r ou not trying to elude me with false 
hopes? That would be cruel !” 

“I am not deceiving you, madame. 
Chanlouineau has given me a weapon, 
which, I hope and believe, places the 
Duke de Sairmeuse in our power. He is 
omnipotent in Montaignac ; the only man 
who could oppose him, M. de Courtor- 
nieu, is his friend. I believe that M. d’ 
Escorval can be saved.” 

“Speak!” cried Maurice; “what must 
we do?” 

“Pray and wait. Maurice. I must act 
alone in this matter, but be assured that 
I — the cause of all your misfortune — will 
leave nothing undone which is possible 
for mortal to do.” 

Absorbed in the task which she had 
imposed upon herself. Mari -Anne had 
fai.ed to remark a stranger who had ar- 
rived during her absence — an old white- 
haired peasant. 

The abbe called her attention to him. 

“Here is a courageous friend,” said he. 
“who since morning, has been searching 
for you everywhere, in order to give you 
news of your father.” 

Marie-Anne was so overcome that she 
could scarcely falter her gratitude. 

“Oh. you need not thank me,” an- 
swered the brave peasant. “I said to 
myself: “.The poor girl must be terribly 
anxious. I ought to relieve her of her 
misery.’ So I came to tell you that M. 
Lacheneur is safe and well, except for a 
wound in the leg, which causes him con- 
siderable suffering, but which will be 
healed in two or three weeks. My son- 
in-law, who was hunting yesterday in 
the mountains, met him near the frontier 
in company with two of his friends. By 
this time he must be in Piedmont, be- 
yond the reach of the gendarmes.” 

“Let us hope now,” said the abbe, 
“that we shall soon hear what has be- 
come of Jean.” 

“I know, already, monsieur,” respond- 
ed Marie-Anne; “my brother has been 
badly wounded, and he is now under the 
protection of kind friends.” 

She bowed her head, almost crushed 
beneath her burden of sorrow, but soon 
rallying, she exclaimed : 

“What am I doing ! What right have 
I to think of my friends, when upon my 
promptness and upon my courage de- 
pends the life of an innocent man com- 
promised by them?” 

Maurice, the abbe, and the officers sur- 
rounded the brave young girl. They 
wished to know what she was about to 
attempt, and to dissuade her from incur- 
ring useless danger. 

She refused to reply to their pressing 


206 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


questions. They wished to accompany 
her, or, at least, to follow her at a dis- 
tance, but she declared that she must go 
alone. 

“I will return in less than two hours, 
and then we can decide what must be 
done,” said she, as she hastened away. 

To obtain an audience with the Duke 
de Sairmeuse was certainly a difficult 
matter ; Maurice and the abbe had proved 
that only too well the previous day. 
Besieged by weeping and heart-broken 
families, he shut himself up securely, 
fearing, perhaps, that he might be 
moved by their entreaties. 

Marie- Anne knew this, but it did not 
alarm her. Chanlouineau had given her 
a word, the same which he had used; 
and this word was a key wdiich would 
unlock the most firmly and obstinately 
locked doors. 

In the vestibule of the house occupied 
by the Duke de Sairmeuse, three or four 
valets stood talking. 

“I am the daughter of M. Lacheneur,” 
said Marie-Anne, addressing one of 
them. “I must speak to the duke at 
once, on matters connected with the re- 
volt.” 

“The duke is absent.” 

“I came to make a revelation.” 

The servant's manner suddenly 
changed. 

“In that case follow me, mademoiselle.” 

She followed him up the stairs and 
through two or three rooms. At last he 
opened a door saying, “enter.” She 
went in. 

It was not the Duke de Sairmeuse who 
was in the room, but his son, Martial. 

Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading 
a paper by the light of a large candelabra. 

On seeing Marie-Anne he sprang up. 
as pale and agitated as if the door had 
given passage to a spectre. 

“You!” he stammered. 

But he quickly mastered his emotion, 
and in a second his quick mind revolved 
all the possibilities that might have pro- 
duced this visit. 

“Lacheneur has been arrested !” he ex- 
claimed, “and you wishing to save him 
from the fate w T hich the military commis- 
sion will pronounce upon him, have 
thought of me. Thank you, dearest 
Marie-Anne, thank you for your confi- 
dence. I will not abuse it. Let your 
heart be re-assured. We will save your 
father, I promise you — I swear it. How, 
I do not yet know. But what does that 
matter. It is enough that he shall be 
saved. I will have it so !” 

His voice betrayed the intense passion 
and joy that was surging in his heart. 

“My father has not been arrested,” 
said Marie-Anne, coldly. 

“Then,” said Martial, with some hesi- 
tation — “Then it is Jean who is a pris- 
oner.” 


“My brother is in safety. If he sur- 
vives his w'ounds he will escape all 
attempts at capture.” 

From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse 
had turned as red as fire. By Marie- 
Anne’s manner he saw that she knew of 
the duel. He made no attempt to deny 
it ; but he tried to excuse himself. 

“It was Jean wiio challenged me,” 
said he; “I tried to avoid it. I only de- 
fended my own life in fair combat, and 
with equal weapons ” 

Marie-Anne interrupted him. 

“I reproach you for nothing, Monsieur 
le Marquis,” she said, quietly. 

“Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe 
than you. Jean was right to challenge 
me. I deserved his anger. He knew 
the baseness of which I had been guilty; 
but you — you were ignorant of it. Oh ! 
Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought 
it was because I did not know you. Now 
I know that you, above all others, are 
pure and chaste.” 

He tried to take her hands ; she repulsed 
him with horror ; and broke into a fit of 
passionate sobbing. 

Of all the blows she had received this 
last was most terrible and overwhelm- 
ing. 

What humiliation and shame! Now, 
indeed, was her cup of sorrow filled to 
overflowing. “Chaste and pure !” he had 
said. Oh, bitter mockery ! 

But Martial misunderstood the mean- 
ing of the poor girl’s gesture. 

“Oh ! I comprehend your indignation,” 
he resumed, with growing eagerness. 
"'But if I have injured you even in 
thought, I now offer you reparation. I 
have been a fool — a miserable fool — for 1 
love you ; I love, and can love you only. 
I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am 
the possessor of millions. I entreat you, 
I implore you to be my wife.” 

Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilder- 
ment. Vertigo seized her; even reason 
seemed to totter upon its throne. 

But now, it had been Chanlouineau 
who, in his prison cell, cried that he died 
for love of her. Now, it was Martial, 
who avowed his willingness to sacrifice 
his ambition and his future for her sake. 

And the poor peasant condemned to 
death, and the son of the all-powerful 
Duke de Sairmeuse, had avowed their 
passion in almost the very same words. 

Martial paused, awaiting some response 
— a word, a gesture. But Marie-Anne 
remained mute, motionless, frozen. 

“You are silent,” he cried, with in- 
creased vehemence. “Do you question 
my sincerity? No, it is* impossible! 
Then why this silence? Do you fear my 
father’s opposition? You need not. 1 
know how to gain his consent. Besides, 
what does his approbation matter to 
us? Have we any need of him? Am L 
not my own master? Am I not rich — 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


207 


immensely rich? I should be a misera- 
ble fool, a coward, if I hesitated be- 
tween his stupid prejudices and the 
happiness of my life.” 

He was evidently obliging himself to 
weigh all the possible objections, in order 
to answer them and overrule them. 

““Is it on account of your family that 
you hesitate?” he continued. ‘‘Your 
father and brother are pursued, and 
France is closed against them. Very 
well, we will leave France, and they 
shall come and live near you. Jean will 
no longer dislike me when you are my 
wife. We will all live in England or in 
Italy. Now I am grateful for the for- 
tune that will enable me to make life a 
continual enchantment for you. I love 
you — and in the happiness and tender 
love which shall be yours in the future. 
I will compel you to forget all the bit- 
terness of the past !” 

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse well enough to understand the 
intensity of the love revealed by these 
astounding propositions. 

And for that very reason she hesitated 
to tell him that he had won this triumph 
over his pride in vain. 

She was anxiously wondering to what 
extremity his wounded vanity would 
carry him, and if a refusal would not 
transform him into a bitter enemy. 

“Why do you not answer?” asked Mar- 
tial, with evident anxiety. 

She felt that she must reply, that she 
must speak, say something; but she 
could not unclose her lips. 

“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le 
Marquis,” she murmured, at last. “If 
I accepted your offer, you would regret 
it continually.” 

“Never!” 

“But you are no longer free. You 
have already plighted your troth. Mile. 
Blanche de Courtornieu is 3' our promised 
wife.” 

“Ah! say one word — only one — and 
this engagement which I detest, is brok- 
en.” 

She was silent. It was evident that 
her mind was fully made up, and that she 
refused his offer. 

“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, 
sadly. 

If she had allowed herself to tell the 
whole truth Marie-Anne would have an- 
swered “Yes.” The Marquis de Sair- 
meuse did inspire her with an almost 
insurmountable aversion. 

“I no more belong to myself than you 
belong to yourself, monsieur,” she fal- 
tered. 

A gleam of hatred, quickly extin- 
guished, shone in Martial’s eye. 

“Always Maurice!” said he. 

“Always.” 

She expected an angry outburst, but 
he remained perfectly calm. 1 


“Then,” said he, with a forced smile, 
“I must believe this and < ther evidence. 
I must believe that you have forced me 
to play a most ridiculous part. Until 
now I doubted it.” 

The poor girl bowed her head, crimson- 
ing with shame to the roots of her hair; 
but she made no attempt at denial. 

“/ was not my own mistress,” she 
stammered; “my father commanded and 
threatened, and I — I obeyed him.” 

“That matters little,” he interrupted; 
“your role has not been that which a 
pure young girl should play.” 

It was the only reproach he had ut- 
tered, and still he regretted it, perhaps 
because he did not wish her to know how 
: deeply he was wounded, perhaps because 
— as he afterwards declared — he could 
not overcome his love for Marie-Anne. 

“Now,” he resumed, “I understand 
your presence here, You come to ask 
mercy for M. ri’Escorval.” 

“Not mercy, but justice. The baron 
i is innocent.” 

Martial approached Marie-Anne, and 
lowering his voice : 

“If the father is innocent,” he whis- 
pered, “then it is the son who is guilty.” 

She recoiled in terror. He knew the 
secret which the judges could not, or 
would nof penetrate. 

But seeing her anguish, he had pity. 

“Another reason,” said he, “for at- 
tempting to save the baron I His blood 
shed upon the guillotine would form an 
impassable gulf between Maurice and 
you. I will join my efforts to yours.” 

Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne 
dared not thank him. How was she 
about to reward his generosity? By 
vilely traducing him. Ah ! she would 
infinitely have preferred to see him angry 
and revengeful. 

Just then a valet opened the door, and 
the Duke de Sairmeuse still in full uniform, 
entered. 

“Upon my word!” he excl limed, as he 
crossed the threshold, “I must confess 
that Chupin is an admirable hunter. 
Thanks to him ” 

He paused abruptly: he had not per- 
ceived Marie-Anne until now. 

“The daughter of that scoundrel Lache- 
neur!” said he, with an air of the ut- 
most surprise. “What does she desire 
here?” 

The decisive moment had come — the 
life of the baron hung upon Marie- Anne’s 
courage and address. The consciousness 
of the terrible responsibility devolving 
upon her restored her self-control and 
calmness as if by magic. 

“I have a revelation to sell to you, mon- 
sieur,” she said, resolutely. 

The duke regarded her with mingled 
wonder and curiosity; then, laughing 
heartily, he threw himself upon a sofa, 
exclaiming : 


203 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


‘-Sell it, my pretty one — sell it ! I can- 
not speak until I am alone with you.” 

At a sign from his father, Martial left 
the room. 

“You can speak now,” said the duke. 

She did not lose a second. 

“You must have read, monsieur,” she 
began, “the circular convening the con- 
spirators.” 

“Certainly; I have a dozen copies in 
my pocket.” 

“By whom do you suppose it was writ- 
ten?” 

“By the elder D’Escorval, or by your 
father.” 

“You are mistaken, monsieur; that 
letter was the work of the Marquis de 
Sairmeuse, your son.” 

The duke sprang up, fire flashing from 
his eyes, his face purple with anger. 

“Zounds ! girl ! I advise you to bridle 
your tongue!” 

“The proof of what I have asserted 
exists.” 

“Silence, you hussy, or ” 

“The lady who sends me here, mon- 
sieur, possesses the original of this circu- 
lar, written by the hand of M. Martial, 
and I am obliged to tell you ” 

She did not have an opportunity to 
complete the sentence. The duke sprang 
to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, 
called his son. 

As soon as Martial entered the room : 

“Repeat,” said the duke — “repeat be- 
fore my son what you have just said to 
me.” 

Boldly, with head erect, and clear, 
firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated her 
accusation. 

She expected, on the part of the mar- 
quis, an indignant denial, cruel re- 
proaches, or an angry explanation. Not 
a word. He listened with a nonchalant 
air, and she almost believed she could 
read in his eyes an encouragement to pro- 
ceed, and a promise of protection. 

When she had concluded : 

“Well!” demanded the duke im- 
periously. 

“First,” replied Martial, lightly, “I 
would like to see this famous circular.” 

The duke handed him a copy. 

“Here — read it.” 

Martial glanced over it, laughed hearti- 
ly, and exclaimed: 

“A clever trick.” 

“What do you say?” 

“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly 
rascal. Who the devil would have 
thought the fellow so cunning to see his 
honest face. Another lesson to teach one 
not to trust to appearances.” 

In all his life the duke de Sairmeuse 
had never received so severe a shock. 

“Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” 
he said to his son, in a choked, unnatural 
voice; “you were one of the instigators 
of this rebellion, then?” 


Martial’s face grew dark, and in a tone 
of disdainful hauteur, he replied : 

“This is the fourth time, sir, that you 
have addressed that question to me, and 
for the fourth time I answer: ‘No.’ 
That should suffice. If the fancy had 
seized me for taking part in this move- 
ment, I should frankly confess it. What 
possible reason could 1 have for conceal- 
ing anything from you?” 

•‘The facts!” interrupted the duke, in 
a frenzy of passion ; “the facts !” 

“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his 
usual indifferent tone; “the fact is that 
the model of this circular does exist, 
that it was written in my best hand on a 
very large sheet of very poor paper. I 
recollect that in trying to find appropriate 
expressions I erased and rewrote several 
\yords. Did I date this writing? I think 
I did, but I could not swear to it.” 

“How do you reconcile this with your 
denials?” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse. 

“I can do this easily. Did I not tell 
you just now that Chanlouineau had 
made a tool of me?” 

The duke no longer knew what to be- 
lieve; but what exasperated him more 
than all else was his son’s imperturbable 
tranquillity. 

“Confess, rather, that you have been 
led into this filth by your mistress,” he 
retorted, pointing to Marie-Anne. 

But this insult Martial would not tol- 
erate. 

“Mile. Lacheneur is not my mistress,” 
he replied, in a tone so imperious that it 
was a menace. “It is true, however, 
that it rests only with her to decide 
whether she will be the Marquise de Sair- 
meuse to-morrow. Let us abandon these 
recriminations, they do not further the 
progress of our business.” 

The faint glimmer of reason which 
still lighted M. de Sairmeuse’s mind, 
checked the still more insulting reply 
that rose to his lips. Trembling with 
suppressed rage, he made the circuit of 
the room several times, and finally paused 
before Marie-Anne, who remained in the 
same place, as motionless as a statue. 

“Come, my good girl,” said he, “give 
me the writing.” 

“It is not in my possession, sir.” 

“Where is it?” 

“In the hands of a person who will 
give it to you only under certain condi- 
tions.” 

“Who is this person?” 

“I am not at liberty to tell you.” 

There was both admiration and jeal- 
ousy in the look that Martial fixed upon 
Marie-Anne. 

He was amazed by her coolness and 
presence of mind. Ah! how powerful 
must be the passion that imparted such a 
ringing clearness to her voice, such 
brilliancy to her eyes, such precision to 
her responses. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


209 


I should not accept the — the| This response fell upon the duke’s 
which are imposed, what, wrath like a bucket of ice water. He 


will he 


“And if 
conditions 

then?” asked M. de Sairmeuse. 

“In that case the writing 
utilized.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean, sir, that early to-morrow 
morning a trusty messenger will start for 
Paris, charged with the task of submit- 
ting this document to the eyes of certain 
persons who are not exactly friends of 
yours. He will show it to M. Laine, for 
example — or to the Duke de Richelieu ; 
and he will, of course, explain to them 
its significance and its value. Will this 
writing prove the complicity of the Mar- 
quis de Sairmeuse? Yes, or no? Have 
you, or have you not, dared to try and to 
condemn to death the unfortunate men 
who were only the tools of jour son?” 

“Ah, wretch! hussy! viper!” inter- 
rupted the duke. He was beside himself. 
A foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes 
seemed starting from their sockets; he 
was no longer conscious of what he was 
saying. 

“This,” he exclaimed, with wild ges 
tures, “is enough to appall me! Yes, I 
have bitter enemies, envious rivals, who 
would give their right hand for his exe- 
crable letter. Ah ! if they obtain it they 
will demand an investigation, and then 
farewell to the rewards due to my ser- 
vices. 

“It will be shouted from the housetops 
that Chanlouineau, in the presence of 
the tribunal, declared you, marquis, his 
leader and his accomplice. You will be 
obliged to submit to the scrutiny of phy 
sicians, who, seeing a freshly-healed 
wound, will require you to tell where 
you received it, and why you concealed 
it. 


♦ “Of what shall 
They will say that I 
order to silence the 
raised against my 
will even say that I 


I not be accused? 
expedited matters in 
voice that had been 
son. Perhaps they 
secretly favored the 


insurrection; I shall be vilified in the 
journals. 

“And who has thus ruined the fortunes 
of our house, that promised so bril- 
liantly? You, you alone, marquis. 

“You believe in nothing, you doubt 
everything — you are cold, skeptical, dis- 
dainful, blase. But a pretty woman 
makes her appearance on the scene. You 
go wild like a school-boy and are ready 
to commit any act of folly.. It is you 
who I am addressing, marquis. Do you 
hear me? Speak! what have you to 
say ?” 

Martial had listened to this tirade with 
unconcealed scorn, and without even at- 
tempting to interrupt it. 

Now he responded, slowly : 

“I think, sir, if Mile. Lacheneur had 
any doubts of the value of the document 
she possesses, she has them no longer.” 

14 


instantly comprehended his folly ; and 
frightened by his own words, he stood 
stupefied with astonishment. 

Without deigning to add another word, 
the marquis turned to Marie-Anne. 

“Will you be so kind as to explain 
what is required of my father in ex- 


change for this letter?” 
“The 


life and liberty of M. d’Es- 

corval.” 

The duke started as if he had received 
an electric shock. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I knew they 
would ask something that was impossi- 
ble!” 

He sank back in his arm chair. A pro- 
found despair succeeded his frenzy. He 
buried his face in his hands, evidently 
seeking some expedient. 

“Why did you not come to me before 
judgment was pronounced?” He mur- 
mured. “Then, I could have done any- 
thing — now, my hands are bound. The 
commission has spoken; the judgment 
must be executed ” 

He rose, and in the tone of a man who 
is resigned to anything he said : 

“Decidedly, I should risk more in 
attempting to save the baron” — in his 
anxiety he gave M. d'Escorval his title — - 
“a thousand times more than I have to 
fear from my enemies. So, mademoi- 
selle” — he no longer said, “my good 
girl” — “you can utilize your document.” 

The duke was about leaving the room, 
but Martial detained him by a gesture. 

“Think again before you decide. Our 
situation is not without* a precedent. A 
few months ago the Count de Lavalette 
was condemned to death, 
wished to pardon him, but his 
and friends opposed it. Though the king 
was master, what did he do ? He seemed 
to be deaf to all the supplications made 
in the prisoner's behalf. The scaffold 
was erected, and yet Lavalette was saved ! 
And no one was compromised — j r es, a 
jailer lost his position ; he is living on his 
income now.” 

Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea 
so cleverly presented by Martial. 

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de 
Lavalette, protected by royal connivance, 
succeeded in making his escape.” 

The simplicity of the expedient — the 
authority of the example — seemed to 
make a vivid impression upon the duke. 
He was silent for a moment, and Marie- 
Anne fancied she saw an expression of 
relief steal over his face. 

“Such an attempt would be very haz- 
ardous,” he murmured; “yet, with care, 
and if one were sure that the secret 
would be kept ” 

“Oh! the secret will be religiously 
preserved, monsieur,” interrupted Marie- 
Anne. 


The king 
ministers 


210 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


With a glance Martial recommended 
silence; then turning to his father, he 
said : 

“One can always consider an expedi- 
ent, and calculate the consequences — 
that does not bind one. When is this 
sentence to be carried into execution?” 

“To-morrow,” responded the duke. 

But even this terrible response did not 
cause Marie-Anne any alarm. The duke’s 
anxiety and terror had taught her how 
much reason she had to hope; and she 
saw that Martial had openly espoused 
her cause. 

“We have, then, only the night before 
us,” resumed the marquis. “Fortunate- 
ly, it is only half-past seven, and until 
ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel 
without exciting the slightest suspicion.” 

He paused suddenly. His eyes, in 
which had shone almost absolute con- 
fidence, became gloomy. He had just 
discovered an unexpected and, as it 
seemed to him, almost insurmountable 
difficulty. 

“Have we any intelligent men in the 
citadel ?” he murmured. ‘ ‘The assistance 
of a jailer or of a soldier is indispen- 
sable.” 

He turned to his father, and brusquety 
asked : 

“Have you any man in whom you can 
confide?” 

“I have three or four spies — they can 
be bought ” 

“No T the wretch who betrays his com- 
rade for a few sous, will betray you for 
a few louis. We must have an honest 
man who sympathizes with the opinions 
of Baron d’Eseorval — an old soldier who 
fought under Napoleon, if possible.” 

A sudden inspiration visited Marie- 
Anne’s mind. 

“I know the man that you require!” 
she cried. 

“You?” 

“Yes, I. At the citadel.” 

“Take care ! Remember that he must 
risk much. If this should be discovered, 
those who take part in it will be sacri- 
ficed.” 

“He of whom I speak is the man you 
need. I will be responsible for him.” 

“And he is a soldier?” 

“He is only an humble corporal; but 
the nobility of his nature entitles him to 
the highest rank. Believe me, we can 
safely confide in him.” 

If she spoke thus, she who would wil- 
lingly have given her life for the baron’s 
salvation, she must be absolutely cer- 
tain. 

So thought Martial. 

“I will confer with this man,” said he. 
“What is his name?” 

“He is called Bavois, and he is a cor- 
poral in the first company of grena- 
diers.” 

“Bavois,” repeated Martial, as if to fix 


the name in his memory; “Bavois. My 
father will find some pretext for desiring 
him summoned.” 

“It is easy to find a pretext. He was 
the brave soldier left on gaurd at Escor- 
val after the troops left the house.” 

“This promises well,” said Martial. 
He had risen and gone to the fire-place 
in order to be nearer his father. 

“I suppose,” he continued, “the baron 
has been separated from the other pris- 
oners.” 

“Yes, he is alone, in a large and very 
comfortable room.” 

“Where is it?” 

“On the second story of the corner 
tower.” 

But Martial who was not so well ac- 
quainted with the citadel as his father, 
was obliged to reflect a moment. 

“The corner tower!” said he; “is not 
that the tall tower which one sees from 
a distance, and which is built on a spot 
where the rock is almost perpendicu- 
lar?” 

“Precisely.” 

By the promptness M. de Sairmeuse 
displayed in replying, it was easy to see 
that he was ready to risk a good deal to 
effect the prisoner’s deliverance. 

“What kind of a window is that in the 
baron’s room?” inquired Martial. 

“It is quite large, and furnished with 
a double row of iron bars, securely fast- 
ened into the stone walls.” 

“It is easy enough to cut these bars. 
On which side does this window look?” 

“On the country.” 

“That is to say,' it overlooks the preci- 
pice. The devil ! That is a serious dif- 
ficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an 
advantage, for they station no sentinels 
there, do they?” 

“Never. Between the citadel wall and 
the edge of the precipice there is barely 
standing room. The soldiers do not ven- 
ture there even in the day time.” 

“There is one more important question. 
What is the distance from M. d’Escor- 
val’s window to the ground?” 

“It is about forty feet from the base of 
the tower.” 

“Good! And from the base of the 
tower to the foot of the precipice — how 
far is that?” 

“Really, I scarcely know. Sixty feet, 
at least, I should think.” 

“Ah, that is high, terrible high. The 
baron fortunately is still agile and vigo- 
rous.” 

The duke began to be impatient. 

“Now,” said he to his son, “will you be 
so kind as to explain your plan?” 

Martial had gradually resumed the 
careless tone which always exasperated 
his father. 

“He is sure of success,” thought Marie- 
Anne. 

“My plan is simplicity itself,” replied 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


211 


Martial.” . “Sixty and forty are one hun- 
dred. It is necessary to procure one 
hundred feet of strong rope. It will 
make a very large bundle : but no matter. 
I will twist it around me, envelop myself 
in a large cloak, and accompany you to 
the citadel. You will send for Corporal 
Envois; you will leave me alone with 
him in a quiet place; I w T ill explain our 
wishes.” 

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his should- 
ers. 

‘•And how will you procure a hundred 
feet of rope at this hour in Montaignac? 
Will you go about from shop to shop? 
You might as well trumpet your project 
at once.” 

“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. 
What I cannot do the friends of the Es- 
corval family will do.” 

The duke was about to offer some new 
objection when his son interrupted him. 

“Pray do not forget the danger that 
threatens us,” he said, earnestly, “nor 
the little time that is left us. I have 
committed a fault, leave me to repair it.” 

And turning to Marie-Anne : 

“You may consider the baron saved,” 
he pursued ; “but it is necessary for me 
to confer with one of his friends. Re- 
turn at once to the Hotel de France and 
Ml the cure to meet me on the Place 
d’ Amies, where I go to await him. 


CHAPTER LXXin. 

Though among the first to be arrested 
at the time of the panic before Montaig- 
nac, the Baron d’Escorval had not for an 
instant deluded himself with false hopes. 

“I am a lost man,” he thought. And 
confronting death calmly, he now 
thought only of the danger that threat- 
ened his son. 

His mistake before the judges was the 
result of his preoccupation. 

He did not breathe freely until he saw 
Maurice led -from the hall by Abbe 
Midon and the friendly officers, for he 
knew that his son would try to confess 
connection with the affair. 

Then\ calm and composed, with head 
erect, and steadfast eye, he listened to 
the death sentence. 

In the confusion that ensued in remov- 
ing the prisoners from the hall, the baron 
found himself beside Chanlouineau, who 
had begun his noisy lamentations. 

“Courage, my boy,” he said, indignant 
at such apparent cowardice. 

“Ah ! it is easy to talk,” whined the 
young farmer. 

Then seeing that no one was observing 
them, he leaned toward the baron, and 
whispered : 

“It is for you I am working. Save all 
your strength for to-night.” 


| Chanlouineau's words and burning 
glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but he 
attributed both to fear. When the guards 
took him back to his cell, he threw him- 
self upon his pallet, and before him rose 
that vision of the last hour, which is at 
once the hope and despair of those who 
are about to die. 

He knew the terrible laws that govern 
a court-martial. The next day — in a few 
hours — at dawn, perhaps, they would 
take him from his cell, place him in front 
of a squad of soldiers, an officer would 
lift his sword, and all would be over. 

Then what was to become of his wife 
and his son? 

His agony on thinking of these dear 
ones was terrible. He was alone; he 
wept. 

But suddenly he started up, ashamed 
of his weakness. He must not allow 
these thoughts to unnerve him. He was 
determined to meet death unflinchingly. 
Resolved to shake off the profound mel- 
ancholy that w r as creeping over him, he 
walked about his cel}, forcing his mind 
to occupy itself with material objects. 

The room which had been allotted to 
him was very large. It had once com- 
municated with the apartment adjoining; 
but the door had been walled up for a 
long time. The cement which held the 
large blocks of stone together had crum- 
bled away, leaving crevices through 
which one might look from one room 
into the other. 

M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his 
eye to one of these interstices. Perhaps 
he had a friend for a neighbor, some 
wretched man who was to share his fate. 
He saw no one. He called, first in a 
whisper, then louder. No voice respond- 
ed to his. 

“If I could only tear down this thin 
partition,” he thought. 

He trembled, then shrugged his shoul- 
ders. And if he did, what then? He 
would only find himself in another apart- 
ment similar to his own, and opening 
like his upon a corridor full of guards, 
whose monotonous tramp he could plain- 
ly hear as they passed to and fro. 

What folly to think of escape! Ho 
knew that every possible precaution must 
' !\ e been taken to guard against it. 

Yes, he knew this, and yet he could 
not refrain from examining his window'. 
Two rows of iron bars protected it. 
These were placed in such a w r ay that it 
was impossible for him to put out his 
head and see how far he was above the 
ground. The height, how r ever, must be 
considerable, judging from the extent of 
the view. 

The sun was setting ; and through the 
violet haze the baron could discern an 
undulating line of hills, whose culmina- 
ting point must be the land of the Reche. 

The dark masses of foliage that he saw 


212 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


on the right were probably the forests of 
Sainneuse. On the left, he divined rath- 
er than saw. nestling between the hills, 
the valley of the Oiselle and Escorval. 

Escorval, that lovely retreat where he 
had known such happiness, where he had 
hoped to die the calm and serene death 
of the just. 

And remembering his past felicity, 
and thinking of his vanished dreams, his 
eyes once more filled with tears. But he 
quickly dried them on hearing the door 
of his cell open. 

Two soldiers .appeared. 

One of the men bore a torch, the other, 
one of those long baskets divided into 
compartments which are used in carry- 
ing meals to the officers on guard. 

These men were evidently deeply moved 
and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinc- 
tive delicacy, they affected a sort of 
gayety. 

u Here is your dinner, monsieur,” said 
one soldier ; “it ought to be very good, 
for it comes from the cuisine of the com- 
mander of the citadel.” 

M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some at- 
tentions on the part of one’s jailer have a 
sinister significance. Still, when he 
seated himself before the little table 
which they prepared for him, he found 
that he was really hungry. 

He ate with a relish, and chatted quite 
cheerfully with the soldiers. 

“Always hope for the best, sir,” said 
one of these worthy fellows. “Who 
knows ? Stranger things have hap- 
pened!” 

When the baron finished his repast, he 
asked for pen, ink, and paper. They 
brought what he desired. 

He found himself again alone ; but his 
conversation with the soldiers had been 
of service to him. His weakness had 
passed; his sang-froid had returned; he 
could now reflect. 

He was surprised that he had heard 
nothing from Mine. d‘Escorval and from 
Maurice. 

Could it be that they had been refused 
access to the prison? No, that could not 
be ; he could not imagine that there exis- 
ted men sufficiently cruel to prevent a 
doomed man from pressing to his heart, 
in a last embrace, his wife and his son. 

Yet, how was it that neither the baron- 
ess nor Maurice had made an attempt to 
see him ! Something must have prevent- 
ed them from doing so. What could it 
be? 

He imagined the worst misfortunes. 
He saw his wife writhing in agony, per- 
haps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild 
with grief, upon his knees at the bedside 
of his mother. 

But they might come, yet. He con- 
sulted his watch. It marked the hour 
of seven. 

But he waited in vain. No one came. 


He took up his pen, and was about to 
write, when he heard a bustle in the cor- 
ridor outside. The clink of spurs re- 
sounded on the flags ; he heard the sharp 
clink of the rifle as the guard presented 
arms. 

Trembling, the baron sprang up, say- 
ing: 

“They have come at last !” 

He was mistaken; the footsteps died 
away in the distance. 

“A round of inspection !” he mur- 
mured. 

But at the same moment, two objects 
thrown through the tiny opening in the 
door of his cell fell on the floor in the 
middle of the room. 

M. d’Escorval caught them up. Some 
one had thrown him two files. 

His lirst feeling was one of distrust. 
He knew that there were jailers who left 
no means untried to dishonor their pris- 
oners before delivering them to the exe- 
cutioner. 

Was it a friend, or an enemy, that had 
given him these instruments of deliver- 
ance and of liberty? 

Chanlouineau's words and the look that 
accompanied them recurred to his mind, 
perplexing him still more. 

He was standing with knitted brows, 
turning and re-turning the fine and well- 
tempered files in his hands, when he sud- 
denly perceived upon the floor a tiny 
scrap of paper which had, at first, escaped 
his notice. 

He snatched it up, unfolded it, and 
read : 

“Your friends are at work. Every- 
thing is prepared for your escape. Make 
haste and saw the bars of your window. 
Maurice and his mother embrace you. 
Hope, courage!” 

Beneath these few lines was the letter 
M. 

But the baron did not need this initial 
to be reassured. He had recognized 
Abbe Midon's handwriting. 

“Ah! he is a true friend,” he mur- 
mured. 

Then the recollection of his doubts and 
despair arose in his mind. 

“This explains why neither my wdfe 
nor son came to visit me,” he thought. 
“And I doubted their energy — and I was 
complaining of their neglect !” 

Intense joy filled his breast ; he raised 
the letter that promised him life and lib- 
erty to his lips, and enthusiastically ex- 
claimed : 

“To work! to work!” 

He had chosen the finest of the two 
files, and was about to attack the ponder- 
ous bars, when he fancied he heard some 
one open the door of the next room. 

Some one had opened it, certainly. The 
person closed it again, but did not lock it. 

Then the baron heard some one moving 
cautiously about. What did all this 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


213 


mean? Were they incarcerating some 
new prisoner, or were they stationing a 
spy there? 

Listening breathlessly, the baron heard 
a singular sound, whose cause it was 
absolutely impossible to explain. 

Noiselessly he advanced to the former 
communicating door, knelt, and peered 
through one of the interstices. 

The sight that met his eyes amazed 
him. 

A man was standing in a corner of the 
room. The baron could see the lower 
part of the man’s body by the light of a 
large lantern which he had deposited on 
the floor at his feet. He was turning 
around and around very quickly, by this 
movement unwinding a long rope which 
had been twined around his body as 
thread is wound about a bobbin. 

M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes as if to 
assure himself that he was not dreaming. 
Evidently this rope was intended for him. 
It was to be attached to the broken bars. 

But how had this man succeeded in 
gaining admission to this room? Who 
could it be that enjoyed such liberty in 
the prison? He was not a soldier — or, at 
least, he did not wear a uniform. 

Unfortunately, the highest crevice was 
in such a place that the visual raj r did not 
strike the upper part of the man’s body ; 
and, despite the baron’s efforts, he was 
unable to see the face of this friend — he 
judged him to be such — whose boldness 
verged on folly. 

Unable to resist his intense curiosity, 
M. d’Escorval was on the point of rap- 
ping on the wall to question him, when 
the door of the room occupied by this 
man, whom the baron already called his 
savior, was impetuously thrown open. 

Another man entered, whose face was 
also outside the baron's range of vision ; 
and the new-comer, in a tone of astonish- 
ment, exclaimed : 

“Good heavens ! what are you doing?” 

The baron drew back in despair. 

“All is discovered!” he thought. 

The man whom M. d'Eseorval believed 
to be his friend did not pause in his labor 
of unwinding the rope, and it was in the 
most tranquil voice that he responded : 

“As you see, I am freeing myself from 
this burden of rope, which I find ex- 
tremely uncomfortable. There are at 
least sixty yards of it, I should think — 
and what a bundle it makes ! I feared 
they would discover it under my cloak.” 

“And what are you going to do with 
all this rope?” inquired the new-comer. 

“I am going to hand it to Baron d'Es- 
corval, to whom 1 have already given a 
file. He must make his escape to-night.” 

So improbable was this scene that the 
baron could not believe his own ears. 

“I cannot be awake ; I must be dream- 
ing,” he thought. 

The new-coiner uttered a terrible oath, 


and, in an almost threatening tone, he 
said : 

“We will see about that! If 3 r ou have 
gone mad, I, thank God! still possess 
ui3 r reason ! 1 will not permit ” 

“Pardon!” interrupted the other, cold- 
ly, “you will permit it. This is merely 
the result of 3 r our own — credulity. When 
Chanlouineau asked 3 r ou to allow him to 
receive a visit from Mile. Lacheneur, 
that was the time 3 r ou should have said : 
T will not permit it.’ Do you know 
what the fellow desired? Simply to give 
Mile. Lacheneur a letter of mine, so 
compromising in its nature, that if it 
ever reaches the hands of a certain per- 
son of my acquaintance, my father and I 
will be obliged to reside in London in fu- 
ture. Then farewell to the projects for 
an alliance between our two families !” 

The new-comer heaved a mighty sigh 
accompanied by a half angry, half sor- 
rowful exclamation ; but the other, with- 
out giving him any opportunity to reply, 
resumed : 

“ You, yourself, marquis. would 
doubtless be compromised. Were 3 r ou 
not a chamberlain during the reign of 
Bonaparte? Ah, marquis! how could a 
man or your experience, a man so subtle, 
and penetrating, and acute, allow him- 
self to be duped by a low, ignorant peas- 
ant?” 

Now M. d’Escorval understood. He 
was not dreaming ; it was the Marquis do 
Courtornieu and Martial de Sairmeuse 
who were talking on the other side of the 
wall. 

This poor M. de Courtornieu had been 
so en irely crushed by Martial’s revela- 
tion that lie no longer made any effort to 
oppose him. 

“And this terrible letter?” he groaned. 

“Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to 
Abbe Midon, who came to me and said : 
“Either the baron will escape, or this 
letter will be taken to the Duke de Riche- 
lieu.’ I voted for the baron's escape, I 
assure you. The abbe procured all that 
was necessary ; he met me at a rendez- 
vous which I appointed in a quiet spot ; 
he coiled all his rope about my bod} r , and 
here I am.” 

Then you think if the baron escapes 
the3 r will give you back your letter?” 

“Most assuredly.” 

“Deluded man! As soon as the baron 
is safe, they will demand the life of 
another prisoner, with the same men- 
aces.” 

“B3^ no means.” 

“You will see.” 

“I shall see nothing of the kind, for a 
very simple reason. I have the letter 
now in my pocket. The abbe gave it to 
me in exchange for my word of honor.” 

M. de Courtornieu’s exclamation proved 
that he considered the abbe an egregious 
fool. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


2H 


“What!” he exclaimed. “You hold 

the proof, and But this is madness ! 

Burn this accursed letter by the flames of 
this lantern, and let the baron & o where 
his slumbers will be undisturbed.” 

Martial’s silence betrayed something 
like stupor. 

“What! you would do this— you?” he 
demanded, at last. 

“Certainly — and without the slightest 
hesitation.” 

“Ah well ! I cannot say that I con- 
gratulate you.” 

The sneer was so apparent that M. de 
Courtornieu was sorely tempted to make 
an angry response. But he was not a 
man to yield to his first impulse — this 
former chamberlain under the emperor, 
now become a grand prevot under the 
Restoration. 

He reflected. Should he, on account 
of a sharp word, quarrel with Martial — 
with the only suitor who had pleased his 
daughter? A rupture — then he would be 
left without any prospect of a son-in-law ! 
When would heaven send him such 
another? And how furious Mile. Blanche 
would be ! 

He concluded to swallow the bitter 
pill; and it was with a paternal indul- 
gence of manner that he said : 

“You are young, my dear Martial.” 

The baron was still kneeling by the 
partition, his ear glued to the crevices, 
holding his breath in an agony of sus- 
pense. 

“You are only twenty, my dear Mar- 
tial, pursued the Marquis de Courtornieu ; 
“you possess the ardent enthusiasm and 
generosity of youth. Complete your un- 
dertaking ; I shall interpose no obstacle : 
but remember that all may be discovered 
— and then ” 

“Have no fears, sir,” interrupted the 
young marquis ; “I have taken every pre- 
caution. Did you see a single soldier in 
the corridor, just now? No. That is 
because my father has, at my solicitation, 
assembled all the officers and guards 
under pretext of ordering exceptional 
precautions. He is talking to them now. 
This gave me an opportunity to come 
here unobserved. No one will see me 
when I go out. Who, then, will dare 
suspect me of having any hand in the 
baron’s escape?” 

“If the baron escapes justice will de- 
mand to know who aided him.” 

Martial laughed. 

“If justice seeks to know, she will find 
a culprit of my providing. Go, now ; I 
have told you all. I had but one person 
to fear : that was yourself. A trusty 
messenger requested you to join me here. 
You came; you know all, you have 
agreed to remain neutral. I am tranquil. 
Tne baron will be safe in Piedmont when 
the sun rise's.” 


He picked up his lantern, and added, 
gayly : 

“But let us go — my father cannot har- 
angue those soldiers forever.” 

“But,” insisted M. de Courtornieu, 
“you have not told me — — ' ” 

“I will tell you all, but not here. 
Come, come!” 

They went out. locking the door behind 
them ; and then the baron rose from his 
knees. 

All sorts of contradictory ideas, doubts, 
and conjectures filled his mind. 

What could this letter have contained? 
Why had not Chanlouineau used it to 
(procure his own salvation? Who would 
have believed that Martial would be so 
faithful to a promise wrested from him 
by threats? 

But this was a time for action, not for 
reflection. The bars were heavy, and 
there were two rows of them. 

M. d’Escorval set to work. 

He had supposed that the task would 
be difficult. It was a thousand times 
more so than he had expected ; he dis- 
covered this almost immediately. 

It was the first time that he had ever 
worked with a file, and he did not know 
how to use it. His progress was despair- 
ingly slow. 

Nor was that all. Though he worked 
as cautiously as possible, each move- 
ment of the instrument across the iron 
produced a harsh, grating sound that 
froze his blood with terror. What if 
some one should overhear this noise? 
And it seemed to him impossible for it to 
escape notice, since he could plainly 
distinguish the measured tread of the 
guards, who had resumed their watch in 
the corridor. 

So slight was the result of his labors, 
that at the end of twenty minutes he ex- 
perienced a feeling of profound discour- 
agement. 

At this rate, it would be impossible for 
him to sever the first bar before day- 
break. What, then, was the use of spend- 
ing his time in fruitless labor? Why mar 
the dignity of death by the disgrace of 
an unsuccessful effort to escape? 

He was hesitating when footsteps ap- 
proached his cell. He hastened to seat 
himself at the table. 

The door opened and a soldier entered, 
to whom an officer who did not cross the 
threshold remarked : 

“You have your instructions, corporal, 
keep a close watch. If the prisoner 
needs anything, call.” 

M. d’Escorval’s heart throbbed al- 
most to bursting. What was cominsr 
now? 

Had M. de Courtornieu’s counsels car- 
ried the day, or had Martial sent some 
one to aid him ? 

“We must not be dawdling here,” said 


i 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


215 


the corporal, as soon as the door was 
closed. 

M. d’Escorval bounded from his chair. 
This man w r as a friend. Here was aid 
and life. 

“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal. 
“Some one said to me just now : ‘A friend 
of the emperor is in danger; are vou 
willing to lend him a helping hand !’ I 
replied; ‘Present.’ and here I am!” 

This certainly was a brave soul. The 
baron extended his hand, and in a voice 
trembling with emotion : 

“Thanks,” said he; “thanks to you 
who, without knowing me. expose your- 
self to the greatest danger for my sake.” 

Bavois shrugged his shoulders disdain- 
fully. 

“Positively my old hide is no more 
precious than yours. If we do not suc- 
ceed, they will chop off our heads with 
the same axe. But we shall succeed. 
Now, let us cease talking and proceed to 
business.” 

As he spoke he drew from beneath his 
long overcoat a strong iron crowbar and 
a small vial of brandy, and deposited 
them upon the bed. 

He then took the candle and passed it 
back and forth before the window five or 
six times. 

“What are you doing?” inquired the 
baron, in suspense. 

“I am signaling to your friends that 
everything is progressing favorably. 
They are down there waiting for us ; and 
see, now they are answering.” 

The baron looked, and three times they 
saw a little flash of flame like that pro- 
duced by the burning of a pinch of gun- 
powder. 

“Now,” said the corporal, “we are all 
right. Let us see what progress you 
have made with the bars.” 

“I have scarcely begun,” murmured 
M. d'Escorval. 

The corporal inspected the work. 

“You may indeed say that you have 
made no progress,” said he; “but, never 
mind, I have been a locksmith, and I 
know how to handle a file,” 

Having drawn the cork from the vial 
of brandy which he had brought, he fas- 
tened the stopper to the end of one of 
the files, and swathed the handle of the 
instrument with a piece of damp linen. 

“That is what they call putting a stop 
on the instrument,” he remarked, by way 
of explanation. 

Then he made an energetic attack on 
the bars. It at once became evident that 
he had not exaggerated his knowledge of 
the subject, nor the efficacy of his pre- 
cautions for deadening the sound. The 
harsh grating that had so alarmed the 
baron was no longer heard, and Bavois. 
finding he had nothing more to dread 
from the keenest ears, now made pre- 


parations to shelter himself from ob- 
servation. 

To cover the opening in the door would 
arouse suspicion at once — so the corporal 
adopted another expedient. 

Moving the little table to another part 
of the room, he placed the light upon it, 
in such a position that the window re- 
mained entirely in shadow. 

Then he ordered the baron to sit down, 
and handing him a paper, said : 

“Now read aloud, without stopping for 
an instant, until you see me cease work.” 

By this method they might reasonably 
hope to deceive the guards outside in the 
corridor. Some of them, indeed, did 
come to the door and look in, then went 
away to say to their companions : '• 

“We have just taken a look at the pris- 
oner. He is very pale, and his eyes are 
glittering feverishly. He is reading aloud 
to divert his mind. Corporal Bavois is 
looking out of the window. It must be 
dull music for him.” 

The baron's voice would also be of ad- 
vantage in overpowering any suspicious 
sound, should there be one. 

And while Bavois worked, M. d'Es- 
corval read, read, read. 

He had completed the perusal of the 
entire paper, and was about to b ‘gin it 
a^ain, when the old soldier, leaving the 
window, motioned him to stop. 

“Half the task is completed,” he said, 
in a whisper. “The lower bars are cut.” 

“Ah ! how can I ever repay 3 r ou for 
your devotion!” murmured the baron. 

“Hush! not a word!” interrupted 
Bavois. “If I escape with you, I can 
never return here ; and I shall not know 
where to go, for the regiment, you see, 
is my only family. Ah, well ! if you will 
give me a home with you, I shall be 
content.” 

Whereupon he swallowed a big draught 
of brandy, and set to work with renewed 
ardor. 

The corporal had cut one of the second 
row of bars, when he was interrupted by 
M. d’Escorval who, without discontinuing 
his reading, had approached and pulled 
Bavois’s long coat to attract his atten- 
tion. 

He turned quickly. 

“What is it?” 

“I heard a singular noise.” 

“Where?” 

“In the adjoining room where the ropes 
are.” 

Honest Bavios muttered a terrible oath. 

Do they intend to betray us? I risked 
my life, and they promised me fair play.” 

He placed his ear against an opening 
in the partition, and listened for a long 
time. Nothing, not the slightest sound. 

“It must have been some rat that you 
heard,” he said, at last. ‘‘Resume your 
reading.” 

And he began his work again. This 


216 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


was the only interruption, and a little 
before four o'clock everything was reftdy. 
The bars were cut, and the ropes, which 
had been drawn through an opening in 
the wall, were coiled under the window. 

The decisive moment had come. Ba- 
vois took the counterpane from the bed, 
fastened it over the opening in the door, 
and tilled up the key-hole. 

“Now,” said he, in the same measured 
tone which he would have used in instruct- 
ing his recruits, “attention, sir, and obey 
the word of command.” 

Then he calmly explained that the es- 
cape would consist of two distinct opera- 
tions ; the first in gaining the narrow plat- 
form at the base of the tower ; the second, 
in descending to the foot of the precipi- 
tous rock. 

The abbe, who understood this, had 
brought Martial two ropes ; the one to 
be used in the descent of the precipice 
being considerably longer than the other. 

“I will fasten the shortest rope under 
your arms, monsieur, and I will let you 
down to the base of the tower. Wlied 
you have reached it, I will pass you the 
longer rope and the crowbar. Do not 
miss them. If we find ourselves without 
them, on that narrow ledge of rock, we 
shall either be compelled to deliver our- 
selves up, or throw ourselves down the 
precipice. I shall not be long in joining 
you. Are you ready?” 

M. d’Escorval lifted his arms, the rope 
was fastened securely about him, and he 
crawled through the window. 

From there, the height seemed immense. 
Below, in the barren fields that surround- 
ed the citadel, eight persons were wait- 
ing, silent, anxious, breathless. 

Thby were Mme. d’Escorval and Mau- 
rice, Marie-Anne, Abbe Midon, and the 
four retired army officers. 

There was no moon ; but the night was 
very clear, and they could see the tower 
quite plainly. 

Soon after four o'clock sounded they 
s iw a dark object glide slowly down the 
side of the tower — it was the baron. Af- 
ter a little, another form followed very 
rapidly — it was Bavois. 

Half of the perilous journey was ac- 
complished. 

From below, they could see the two 
figures moving about on the narrow 
platform. The corporal and the baron 
were exerting all their strength to fix 
the crowbar securely in a crevice of the 
rock. 

In a moment or two one of the figures 
stepped from the projecting rock and 
glided gently down the side of the preci- 
pice. 

It could be none other than M. d’Escor- 
val. Transported with happiness, his 
wife sprang forward with open arms to 
receive, him. 


Wretched woman! A terrific cry rei.« 
the still night air. 

M. d’Escorval was falling from a height 
of fifty feet ; he was hurled down to the 
foot of the rocky precipice. The rope 
had parted. 

Had it broken naturally? 

Maurice, who examined the end of it, 
exclaimed with horrible imprecations of 
hatred and vengeance that they had been 
betrayed — that their enemy had arranged 
to deliver only a dead body into their 
hands, — that the rope, in short, had been 
foully tampered with — cut 1 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

Chupin had not taken time to sleep, 
nor scarcely time to drink, since that un- 
fortunate morning when the Duke de 
Sairmeuse ordered affixed to the walls of 
Montaignac, that decree in which he 
promised twenty thousand francs to the 
person who should deliver up Lacheneur, 
dead or alive. 

“Twenty thousand francs” Chupin 
muttered gloomily ; “twenty sacks with 
a hundred pistoles in each! Ah! if I 
could discover Lacheneur; even if he 
were dead and buried a hundred feet un- 
der ground, I should gain the reward.” 

The appellation of traitor, which he 
would receive ; the shame and condemna- 
tion that would fall upon him and his, 
did not make him hesitate for a moment. 

He saw but one thing — the reward — the 
blood-money. 

Unfortunately, he had nothing, what- 
ever, to guide him in his researches ; no 
clue, however vague. 

All that was known in Montaignac was 
that M. Lacheneur’s horse was killed at 
the Croix-d’Arcy. 

But no one knew whether Lacheneur 
himself had been wounded, or whether 
he had escaped from the fray uninjured. 
Had he reached the frontier? or had he 
found an asylum in the house of one of 
his friends. 

Chupin was thus hungering for the 
price of blood, when, on the day of the 
trial, as he was returning from the cita- 
del, after making his deposition, he en- 
tered a drinking saloon. While there he 
heard the name of Lacheneur uttered in 
low tones near him. 

Two peasants were emptying a bottle 
of wine, and one of them, an old man, 
was telling the other that he had come to 
Montaignac to give Mile. Lacheneur news 
of her father. 

He said that his son-in-law had met the 
chief conspirator in the mountains which 
separate the arrondissement of Montaig- 
nac from Savoy. He even mentioned the 
exact place of meeting, which was near 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


217 


Saint Pavin-des-Gottes, a tiny village of 
only a few Louses. 

Certainly the worthy man did not 
think he was committing a dangerous in- 
discretion. In his opinion, Lache- 
neur had, ere this, crossed the frontier, 
and was out of danger. 

In this he was mistaken. 

The frontier bordering on Savoy was 
guarded by soldiers, who had received 
orders to allow none of the conspirators 
to pass. 

The passage of the frontier, then, pre- 
sented many great difficulties, and even 
if a man succeeded in effecting it, he 
might be arrested and imprisoned on the 
other side, until the formalities of extra- 
dition had been complied with. 

Chupin saw his advantage, and instant- 
ly decided on his course. 

He knew that he had not a moment to 
lose. He threw a coin down upon the 
counter, and without waiting for his 
change, rushed back to the citadel, and 
asked the sergeant at the gate for pen and 
paper. 

The old rascal generally wrote slowly 
and painfully ; to-day it took him but a 
moment to trace these lines : 

U I know Lacheneur" s retreat, and beg 
monseigneur to order some mounted sol- 
diers to accompany me, in order to 
capture him. “Chupin.” 

M 

This note was given to one of the 
guards, with a request to take it to the 
Duke de Sairmeuse, who was presiding 
over the military eommision. 

Five minutes later, the soldier reap- 
peared with the same note. 

Upon the margin the Duke had written 
an order, placing at Chupin's disposal, a 
lieutenant and eight men chosen Horn 
the Montaignac chasseurs, who could be 
relied upon, and who were not sus- 
pected (as were the other troops) of 
sympathizing with the rebels. 

Chupin also requested a horse for his 
own use, and this was accorded him. 
The duke had just received this note 
when, with a triumphant air, he abruptly 
entered the room where Marie-Anne and 
his son were negotiating for the release 
of Paron d'EscOTval. 

It was because he believed in the truth 
of the rather hazardous assertion made 
by his spy that he exclaimed, upon the 
threshold : 

“Upon my word! it must be confessed 
that this Chupin is an incomparable 
huntsman ! Thanks to him ” 

Then he saw Mile. Lacheneur, and sud- 
denly checked himself. 

Unfortunately, neither Martial nor 
Mai ie- Anne were in a state, of mind to 
notice this remark and its interruption. 

Had he been questioned, the duke 
would probably have allowed the truth 


to escape him, and M. Lacheneur might 
have been saved. 

But Lacheneur was one of those unfor- 
tunate beings who seem to be pursued 
by an evil destiny which they can never 
escape. 

Buried beneath his horse, M. Lache- 
neur had lost consciousness. 

When he regained his senses, restored 
by the fresh morning air, the place was 
silent and deserted. Not far from him, 
he saw two dead bodies which had not 
yet been removed. 

It was a terrible moment, and in the 
depth of his soul he cursed death, which 
had refused to heed his entreaties. Had 
he been armed, doubtless, he would have 
ended by suicide, the most cruel mental 
torture which man was ever forced to 
endure — but he had no weapon. 

He was obliged to accept the chastise- 
ment of life. 

Perhaps, too, the voice of honor whis- 
pered that it was cowardice to strive to 
escape the responsibility of one’s acts by 
death. 

At last, he endeavored to draw himself 
out from beneath the body of his horse. 

This proved to be no easy matter, as 
his foot was still in the stirrup, and his 
limbs were so badly cramped that he 
could scarcely move theip. He finallj r 
succeeded in freeing himself, however, 
and, on examination, discovered that he, 
who it would seem ought to have been 
killed ten times over, had only one hurt 
— a bayonet wound in the leg, extending 
from the ankle almost to the knee. 

Such a wound, of course, caused him 
not a little suffering, and he was trying 
to bandage it with his handkerchief, 
when he heard the sound of approaching 
footsteps. 

He had no time for reflection; he 
sprang into the forest that lies to the 
left of the Croix-d’Arcy. 

The troops were returning to Mon- 
taignac after pursuing the rebels for 
more than three miles. There were about 
two hundred soldiers, and they were 
bringing back, as prisoners, about twen- 
ty peasants. 

Hidden by a great oak scarcely fifteen 
paces from the road, Lacheneur recog- 
nized several of the prisoners in the gray 
light of dawn. It was only by the 
merest chance that he escaped discovery ; 
and he fully realized how difficult it 
would be for him to gain the frontier 
without falling into the hands of the de- 
tachment of soldiery, who were doubt- 
less scouring the country in every direc- 
tion. 

Still he did not despair. 

The mountains lay only two leagues 
away; and he firmly beiieved that he 
could successfully elude his pursuers as 
soon as he gained the shelter of the hills. 

He began his journey courageously. 


218 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Alas ! he had not realized how exhaus- 
ted he had become from the excessive 
labor and excitement of the past few 
days, and by the loss of blood from his 
wound, which he could not staunch. 

He tore up a pole in one of tbe vine- 
yards to serve as a staff, and dragged 
himself along, keeping in the shelter of 
the woods as much as possible, and 
creeping along beside the hedges and in 
the ditches when he was obliged to 
traverse an open space. 

The great physical suffering, and to 
the most cruel mental anguish, was 
now added an agony that momentarily 
increased — hunger. 

He had eaten nothing for thirty hours, 
and he felt terribly weak from lack of 
nourishment. This torture soon became 
so intolerable that he was willing to 
brave anything to appease it. 

At last he perceived the roofs of a tiny 
hamlet. He decided to enter it and ask 
for food. He was on the outskirts of the 
village, when he heard the rolling of a 
drum. Instinctively he hid behind a 
wall. But it was only a town-crier beat- 
ing his drum to call the people together. 

And soon a voice rose so char and 
penetrating that each word it uttered 
fell distinctlj r on Lacheneur's ears. 

It said : 

‘‘This is to inform you that the author- 
ities of Montaignac promise to give a 
reward of twenty thousand francs — two 
thousand pistoles, you understand — to 
him who will deliver up the man known 
as Laeheneur, dead or alive. Dead or 
alive, you understand. If he is dead, the 
compensation will be the same; twenty 
thousand francs I It will be paid in 
gold.” 

With a bound, Laeheneur had risen, 
wild with despair and horror. Though 
he had believed himself utterly ex- 
hausted, he found superhuman strength 
to flee. 

A price had been set upon his head. 
This frightful thought awakened in his 
breast the frenzy that renders a hunted 
wild beast so dangerous. 

In all the villages around him he fan- 
cied he could hear the rolling of drums, 
and the voice of the crier proclaiming 
this infamous edict. 

Go where he would now, he was a 
tempting bait offered to treason and cu- 
pidity. In what human creature could 
lie confide? Under what roof could he 
ask shelter? 

And even if he were dead, he would 
still be worth a fortune. 

Though he died from lack of nourish- 
ment and exhaustion under a bush by 
the way side, his emaciated body would 
still be worth twenty thousand francs. 

And the man who found his corpse 
would not give it burial. He would 
place it on his cart and bear it to Mon- 


taignac. He would go to the authorities 
and say : 

“Here is Lacheneur’s body — give me 
the reward !” 

How long and by what paths he pur- 
sued his flight, he could not tell. 

But several hours after, as he traversed 
the wooded hills of Charves, he saw two 
men, who sprang up and fled at his ap- 
proach. In a terrible voice, he called 
after them : 

“Eh! you men! do each of you desire 
a thousand pistoles? I am Laeheneur.” 

They paused when they recognized 
him, and Laeheneur saw that they were 
two of his followers. They were well-to- 
do farmers, and it had been very difficult 
to induce them to take part in the revolt. 

These men had part of a loaf of bread 
and a little brandy. They gave both to 
the famished man. 

They sat down beside him on the grass, 
and while he was eating they related 
their misfortunes. Their connection 
with the conspiracy had been discov- 
ered ; their houses were full of soldiers, 
who were hunting for them, but they 
hoped to reach Italy by the aid of a guide 
who was waiting for them at an ap- 
pointed place, 

Laeheneur extended his hand to them. 

“Then I am saved,” said he. “Weak 
and wounded as I am, I should perish if 
I were left alone.” 

But the two farmers did not accept the 
hand lie offered. 

“We should leave you,” said the 
younger man, gloomily, “for yon are the 
cause of our misfortunes. You deceived 
us, Monsieur Laeheneur.” 

He dared not protest, so just was the 
reproach. 

“Nonsense ! let him come all the same,” 
said the other, with a peculiar glance at 
his companion. 

So they walked on, and that same eve- 
ning, after nine hours of traveling on the 
mountains, they crossed the frontier. 

But this long journey was not made 
without bitter reproaches, and even more 
bitter recriminations. 

Close y questioned by his companions, 
Laeheneur, exhausted both in mind and 
body, finally admitted the insincerity of 
the promises with which he had inflamed 
the zeal of his followers. He acknowl- 
edged that he had spread the report that 
Marie-Louise and the young king of 
Home were concealed in Montaignac, and 
that this report was a gross falsehood. 
He confessed that he had given the signal 
for the revolt without any chance of 
success, and without means of action, 
leaving everything to chance. In short, 
he confessed that nothing was real save 
his hatred, his implacable hatred of the 
Sairmeuse family. 

A dozen times, at least, during this 
terrible ayowal, the peasants who ac- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


219 


companicd him were on the point of 
hurling him down the precipices upon 
whose verge they were walking. 

“So it was to gratify his ov\hi spite,” 
they thought, quivering with rage, “that 
he sets everybody to fighting and killing 
one another — that he ruins us, and drives 
us into exile. We will see.” 

The fugitives went to the nearest house 
after crossing the frontier. 

It was a lonely inn, about a league 
from the little village of Saint-Jean-de- 
Coche, and was kept by a man named 
Balstain. 

They rapped, in spite of the lateness of 
the hour — it was past midnight. They 
were admitted, and they ordered supper. 

But Lacheneur, weak from loss of 
blood, and exhausted by his long tramp, 
declared that he would cat no supper. 

He threw himself upon a bed in an 
adjoining room, and was soon asleep. 

This was the first time since their 
meeting with Lacheneur, that his com- 
panions had found an opportunity to talk 
together in private. 

The same idea had occurred to both of 
them. 

They believed that by delivering up 
Lacheneur to the authorities, they might 
obtain pardon for themselves. 

Neither of these men would have con- 
sented to receive a single sou of the 
money promised to the betrayer ; but to 
exchange their life and liberty for the 
life and liberty of Lacheneur did not 
seem to them a culpable act, under the 
circumstances. 

“For did he not deceive us?” they said 
to themselves. 

They decided, at last, that as soon as 
they had finished their supper, they 
would go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche and 
inform the Piedmontese guards. 

But tiiey reckoned without their host. 

They had spoken loud enough to be 
overheard by Balstain, the inn-keeper, 
who had learned, during the day, of the 
magnificent reward which had been 
promised to Lacheneur' s captor. 

When he heard the name of the guest 
who was sleeping quietly under his roof, 
a thirst for gold seized him. He whis- 
pered a word to his wife, then escaped 
through the window to run and summon 
the gendarmes. 

He had been gone half an hour before 
the peasants left the house ; for to muster 
up courage for the act they were about 
to commit they had been obliged to drink 
heavily. 

They closed the door so violently on 
going out that Lacheneur was awakened 
by the noise. He sprang up, and came 
out into the adjoining room. 

The wile of the inn-keeper was there 
alone. 

“Where are my friends?” he asked, 
anxiously. “Where is your husband?” 


Moved by sympathy, the woman tried 
to falter somfe excuse, but finding none, 
she threw herself at his feet, crying: 

“Fly, monsieur, save yourself — you 
are betrayed!” 

Lacheneur rushed back into the other 
room, seeking a weapon with which he 
could defend himself, an issue through 
which he could flee ! 

He had thought that they might aban- 
don him, but betray him — no, never! 

“Who has sold me?” he asked, in a 
strained, unnatural voice. 

“Your friends — the two men who sup- 
ped there at that table.” 

“Impossible, madame, impossible!” 

He did not suspect the designs and 
hopes of his former comrades; and he 
could not, he would not believe them 
capable of ignobly betraying him for 
gold. * 

“But,” pleaded the inn-keeper*s wife, 
still on her knees before him, “they have 
just started for Saint-Jean-de-Coche, 
where they will denounce you. I heard 
them say that your life would purchase 
theirs. They have certainly gone to 
summon the gendarmes ! Is this not 
enough, or am I obliged to endure the 
shame of confessing that my own hus- 
band, too, has gone to betray you.” 

Lacheneur understood it all now ! And 
this supreme misfortune, after all the 
misery he had endured, broke him down 
completely. 

Great tears gushed from his eyes, and 
sinking down into a chair, he murmured : 

“Let them come; 1 am ready for them. 
No, I will not stir from here ! My miser- 
able life is not worth such a struggle.” 

But the wife of the traitor rose, and 
grasping the unfortunate man's clothing, 
she shook him, she dragged him to the 
door — she would have carried him had 
she possessed sufficient strength. 

“You shall not remain here,” said she, 
with extraordinary vehemence. “Fly, 
save yourself. You shall not be taken 
here ; it will bring misfortune upon our 
house !” 

Bewildered by these violent adjura- 
tions, and urged on by the instinct of 
self-preservation, so powerful in every 
human heart, Lacheneur stepped out 
upon the threshold. 

The night was very dark, and a chill- 
ing fog intensified the gloom. 

“See, madame,” said the poor fugitive 
gently, “how can I find my way through 
these mountains, which I do not know, 
and where there are no roads — where the 
foot-paths are scarcely discernible.” 

With a quick movement Balstain’s wife 
pushed Lacheneur out, and turning him 
as one does a blind man to set him on 
the right track. 

“Walk straight before you,” said she, 
“always against the wind. God will pro- 
tect you. Farewell!” 


220 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He turned to ask further directions, hut 
she had re-entered the house and closed 
the door. 

Upheld by a feverish excitement, he 
walked for long hours. He soon lost his 
way, and wandered on through the moun- 
tains, benumbed with cold, stumbling 
over rocks, sometimes falling. 

Why he was not precipitated to the 
depths of some chasm it is difficult to 
explain. 

He lost all idea of his whereabouts, 
and the sun was high in the heavens when 
he at last met a human being of whom he 
could inquire his way. 

It was a little shepherd boy, in pursuit 
of some stray goats, whom he encoun- 
tered ; but the lad, frightened by the wild 
and haggard appearance of the stranger, 
at first refused to approach. 

The offer of a piece of money induced 
him to come a little nearer. 

“You are on the summit of the moun- 
tain, monsieur,” said he; “and exactly 
on the boundary line. Here is France ; 
there is Savoy.” 

“And what is the nearest village?” 

“On the Savoyard side, Saint-Jean-le- 
Coche ; on the French side, Saint Pavin.” 

So after all his terrible exertions, Lache- 
neur was not a league from the inn. 

Appalled by this discovery, he re- 
mained for a moment undecided which 
course to pursue. 

What did it matter? Why should the 
doomed hesitate? Do not all roads lead 
to the abyss into which they must sink. 

He remembered the gendarmes that 
the innkeeper’s wife had warned him 
against, and slowly and with great diffi- 
culty descended the steep mountain-side 
leading down to France. 

He was near Saint-Pavin, when, before 
an isolated cottage, he saw a pretty peas- 
ant-woman spinning in the sunshine. 

He dragged himself towards her, and 
in weak tones begged her hospitality. 

On seeing this man, whose face was 
ghastly pale, and whose clothing was 
torn and soiled with dust and blood, the 
woman rose, evidently more surprised 
than alarmed. 

She looked at him closely, and saw 
that his age, his stature, and his features 
corresponded with the descriptions of 
Lacheneur, which had been scattered 
thickly about the frontier. 

“You are the conspirator they are 
hunting for, and for whom they promise 
a reward of twenty thousand francs,” 
she said. 

Lacheneur trembled. 

“Yes, I am Lacheneur,” he replied, 
after a moment’s hesitation ; “I am Lache- 
neur. Betray me, if you will, but in 
charity’s name give me a morsel of bread, 
and allow me to rest a little.” 

At the words “betray me,” the young 


woman made a gesture of horror and dis- 
gust. 

“We betray you, sir!” said she. “Ah ! 
you do not know the Antoines ! Enter 
our house, and lie down upon the bed 
while I prepare some refreshments for 
you. When my husband comes home, 
we will see what can be done.” 

It was nearly sunset when the master 
of the house, a robust mountaineer, with 
a frank face, returned. 

On beholding the stranger seated at 
his fireside he turned frightfully pale. 

“Unfortunate woman !” he whispered 
to his wife, “do you not know that any 
man who shelters this fugitive will be 
shot, and his house leveled to the ground? 

Lacheneur rose with a shudder. 

He had not known this. He knew the 
infamous reward which had been promised 
to his betrayer ; but he had not known 
the danger his presence brought upon 
these worthy people. 

“I will go at once, sir,” said he, gently. 

But the peasant placed his large hand 
kindly upon his guest’s shoulder, and 
forced him to resume his seat. 

“It was not to drive you away that I 
said what I did,” he remarked. “You 
are at home, and you shall remain here 
until I can find some means of ensuring 
your safety.” 

The pretty peasant woman flung her 
arms about her husband's neck, and in 
tones of the most ardent affection ex- 
claimed: “Ah! you are a noble man, An- 
toine.” 

He smiled, embraced her tenderly, then, 
pointing to the open door : 

“Watch !” he said. “I feel it my duty 
to tell you, sir, that it will not be easy to 
save you,” resumed the honest peasant. 
“The promises of reward have set all 
evil-minded people on the alert. They 
know that you are in the neighborhood. 
A rascally innkeeper has crossed the 
frontier for the express purpose of be- 
traying your whereabouts to the French 
gendarmes.” 

“Balstain?” 

“Yes, Balstain; and he is hunting for 
you now. That is not all. As I passed 
through Saint-Pavin, on my return, I 
saw eight mounted soldiers, guided by a 
peasant, also on horseback. They de- 
clared that they knew you were concealed 
in the village, and they were going to 
search every house.” 

These soldiers were none other than 
the Montaignac chasseurs, placed at Chu- 
pin’s disposal by the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

It was indeed as Antoine had said. 

The task was certainly not at all to 
their taste, but they were closely watched 
by the lieutenant in command, who hoped 
to receive some substantial reward if the 
expedition was crowned with success. 
Antoine, meanwhile, continued his ex- 
position of his hopes and fears. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


221 


“Wounded and exhausted as you are, , '| 
he was saying to Lacheueur, “’you will 1 
be in no condition to make a long march 
in less than a fortnight. Until then you 
must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I 
know a safe retreat in the mountain, not 
far from here. I will take you there to- 
night, with provisions enough to last you 
for a week.” 

A stifled cry from his wife interrupted 
1 him. 1 

He turned, and saw her fall almost 
fainting against the door, her face whiter 
than her coif, her finger pointing to the 
path that led from Saint-Pavin to their 
cottage. 

“The soldiers — they are coming!” she 
gasped. 

Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and 
the peasant sprang to the door to see for 
themselves. 

The young woman had spoken the 
truth. 

The Montaignac chasseurs were climb- 
ing the steep foot-path slowly, but surely. 

Chupin walked in advance, urging them 
on with voice, gesture and example. 

An imprudent word from the little 
shepherd-boy, whom M. Lacheneur had 
questioned, had decided the fugitives 
fate. 

On returning to Saint-Pavin, and hear- 
ing that the soldiers were searching for 
the chief conspirator, the lad chanced to 
say : 

“I met a man just now on the mountain 
who asked me where he was ; and I saw 
him go down the foot-path leading to 
Antoine’s cottage.” 

And in proof of his words, he proudly 
displayed the piece of silver which La- 
cheneur had given him. 

‘•One more bold stroke and we have our 
man!” exclaimed Chupin. “Come, com- 
rades !” 

And now the party were not more than 
two hundred feet from the house in which 
the proscribed man had found an asylum. 

Antoine and his wife looked at each 
other with anguish in their eyes. 

They saw that their visitor was lost. 

“We must save him! we must save 
him !” cried the woman, 

“Yes, we must save him !” repeated the 
husband, gloomily. “They shall kill me 
before I betray a man in my own house.” 

“If he would hide in the stable Oehind 
the bundles of straw -” 

“They would find him ! These soldiers 
are worse than tigers, and the wretch 
who leads them on must have the keen 
scent of a bloodhound.” 

He turned quickly to Lacheneur. 

“Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from 
the back window and flee to the moun- 
tains. They will see us, but no matter ! 
These horsemen are always clumsy run- 
ners. If you cannot run, I will carry 


you. They will probably fire at us, but 
they will miss us.” 

“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur. 

The honest mountaineer shuddered ; 
but he said : 

“She will join us.” 

Lacheneur took his friend's hand and 
pressed it tenderly. 

“Ah! you are noble people,” he ex- 
claimed, “and God will reward you for 
your kindness to a poor fugitive. But 
you have done too much already. I 
should be the basest of men if I consent- 
ed to uselessly expose you to danger. I 
can bear this life no longer ; I have no 
wish to escape.” 

He drew the sobbing woman to him 
and kissed her upon the forehead. 

“I have a daughter, young and beauti- 
ful like yourself, as generous and proud. 
Poor Marie-Annie ! And I have pitilessly 
sacrificed her to my hatred! I should 
not complain; come what may, I have 
deserved it.” 

The sound of approaching footsteps be- 
came more and more distinct. Lache- 
neur straightened himself up, and seemed 
to be gathering all his energy for the de- 
cisive moment. 

“Remain inside,” he said, imperiously, 
to Antoine and his wife. “1 am going 
out; they must not arrest me in your 
house.” 

As he spoke, he. stepped outside the 
door, with a firm tread, a dauntless brow, 
a calm and assured mien. 

The soldiers were but a few feet from 
him. 

“Halt!” he exclaimed, in a strong, 
ringing voice. “It is Lacheneur you are 
seeking, is it not? I am he ! I surrender 
myself.” 

An unbroken stillness reigned. Not a 
sound, not a word replied. 

The spectre of death that hovered 
above his head imparted such an imposing 
majesty to his person that the soldiers 
paused, silent and awed. 

But there was ^pe man who was terri- 
fied by this resonant voice, and that was 
Chupin. 

Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and 
pale and trembling, he tried to hide be- 
hind the soldiers. 

Lacheneur walked straight to him. 

“So it is you who have sold my life, 
Chupin?” he said, scornfully. “You 
have not forgotten, I see plainly, how 
often Marie- Anne has filled your empty 
larder — and now you take your revenge.” 

The miserable wretch seemed crushed. 
Now that he had done this foul deed, he 
knew what treason really was. 

“So be it,” said M. Lacheneur. “You 
will receive the price of my blood; but 
it will not bring you good fortune — 
traitor !” 

But Chupin. indignant with himself for 


222 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


his weakness, was already trying to shake 
off the fear that mastered him. 

“You have conspired against the king,” 
he stammered. “I have done only my 
duty in denouncing you.” 

And turning to the soldiers, he said : 

“As for you, comrades, you may rest 
assured that the duke de Sairmeuse will 
testify his gratitude for your services.” 

They had bound Lacheneur’s hands, 
and the party were about to descend the 
mountain, when a man appeared, bare- 
headed, covered with perspiration, and 
panting for breath. 

Twilight was falling, but M. Lacheneur 
recognized Balstain. 

“Ah ! you have him !” he exclaimed, as 
soon as he was within hearing distance, 
and pointing to the prisoner. “The re- 
ward belongs to me — I denounced him 
first on the other side of the frontier. 
The gendarmes at Saint-Jean-de-Coche 
will testify to that. He would have been 
captured last night in my house, but he 
ran away in my absence ; and I have been 
following the bandit for sixteen hours.” 

He spoke with extraordinary vehe- 
mence and volubility, beside himself 
with fear lest he was about to lose his 
reward, and lest his treason would bring 
him nothing save disgrace and obloquy. 

“If you have any right to the reward, 
you must prove it before the proper au- 
thorities"” said the officer in command. 

“If I have any right !” interrupted Bal- 
stain; “who contests my right, then?” 

He looked threateningly around, and 
his eyes fell on Chupin. 

“Is it you?” he demanded. “Do you 
dare to assert that you discovered the 
brigand?” 

“Yes, it was I who discovered his hiding 
place.” 

“You lie, imposter!” vociferated the 
inn-keeper; “you lie!” 

The soldiers did not move. This scene 
repaid them for the disgust they had ex- 
perienced during the afternoon. 

“But,” continued Bahstain, “what else 
could one expect froiff a vile knave .like 
Chupin? Every one knows that he has 
been obliged to flee from France a dozen 
times on account of his crimes. Where 
did you take refuge when you crossed the 
frontier, Chupin?” In my house, in the 
inn kept by honest Balstain. You were 
fed and protected there. How many 
times have I saved you from the gen- 
darmes and from the galleys? More 
times than I can count. And to reward 
me, you steal my property ; you steal 
this man who was mine ” 

“He is insane!” said the terrified Chu- 
pin, “he is mad!” 

Then the inn-keeper changed his tactics. 

“At least you will be reasonable,” he 
exclaimed. “Let us see, Chupin. what 
you will do for an old friend? Divide, 
will you not? No, you say no? What 


will you give me, comrade? A third? 
Is that too much? A quarter, then 

Chupin felt that all the soldiers were 
enjoying his terrible humiliation. They 
were sneering at him. and only an instant 
before they had avoided coming in con- 
tact with him with evident horror. 

Transported with anger, he pushed 
Balstain violently aside, crying to the 
soldiers : 

“Come — are we going to spend the 
night here?” 

An implacable hatred gleamed in the 
eye of the Piedmontese. 

He drew his knife from his pocket and 
making the sign of the cross in the air : 

“Saint-Jean de-Coche,” he exclaimed, 
in a ringing voice, “and you, Holy Vir- 
gin, hear my vow. May my soul burn in 
hell if I ever use a knife at my repasts 
until I have plunged this, which I now 
hold, into the heart of the scoundrel who 
has defrauded me !” 

Having said this, he disappeared in the 
woods, and the soldiers took up their line 
of march. 

But Chupin was no longer the same. 
All his accustomed impudence had fled 
He walked on with bowed head, a prey 
to the most sinister presentiments. 

He felt assured that an oath like that 
of Balstain's, and uttered by such a man. 
was equivalent to a death warrant, or at 
least to a speedy prospect of assassina- 
tion. 

This thought tormented him so much 
that he wouid not allow the detachment 
to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as had 
been agreed upon. He was impatient to 
leave the neighborhood. 

After supper Chupin sent for a cart; 
the prisoner, securely bound, was placed 
in it, and the party started for Montaig- 
nac. 

The great bell was striking two when 
Lacheneur was brought into the citadel. 

At that very moment M. d'Escorval 
and Corporal Bavois were making their 
preparations for escape. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

Alone in his cell, Chanlouineau, after 
Marie-Anne's departure, abandoned him- 
self to the most frightful despair. 

He had just given more than life to the 
woman he loved so fervently. 

For had he not, in the hope of obtain- 
ing an interview with her, perilled his 
honor by simulating the most ignoble 
fear? While doing so, he thought only 
of the success of his ruse. But now he 
knew only too well what those who had 
witnessed his apparent weakness would 
say of him. 

“This Chanlouineau is only a miserable 
coward after all,” he fancied he could 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


223 


hear them saying among themselves. 
“We have seen him on his knees, beg- 
ging for mercy, and promising to betray 
his accomplices.” 

The thought that his memory would be 
tarnished with charges of cowardice and 
treason drove him nearly mad. 

He actually longed for death, since it 
would give him an opportunity to retrieve 
his honor. 

“They shall see, then,” he cried, 
wrathfully, “if I turn pale and tremble 
before the soldiers.” 

He was in this state of mind when the 
door opened to admit the Marquis de 
Courtornieu, who, after seeing Mile. 
Lacheneur leave the prison, came to 
Chanlouineau to ascertain the result of 
her visit. 

“Well, my good fellow ” began the 

marquis, in his most condescending man- 
ner. 

“Leave?” cried Chanlouineau. in a fury 
of passion. “Leave, or ” 

Without waiting to hear the end of the 
sentence the marquis made his escape, 
greatly surprised and not a little dis- 
mayed by this sudden change. 

“What a dangerous and bloodthirsty 
rascal !” he remarked to the guard. “It 
would, perhaps, be advisable to put him 
in a straight-jack' t !” 

Ah! there was no necessity for that. 
The heroic peasant had thrown himself 
upon his straw pallet, oppressed with 
feverish anxiety. 

Would Marie-Anne know how to make 
the best use of the weapon which he had 
placed in her hands ? 

If he hoped so, it was because she 
would have as her counsellor and guide 
a man in whose judgment he had the 
most implicit confidence — Abbe Midon. 

“Martial will be afraid of the letter,” 
he raid to himself, again and again; “cer- 
tainly he will be afraid.’*’ 

In this Chanlouineau was entirely mis- 
taken. His discernment and intelligence 
were certainly above his station, but he 
was not sufficiently acute to read a char- 
acter like that of the young Marquis de 
Sairmeuse. 

The document which he had written m 
a moment of abandon and blindness, was 
almost without influence in determining 
liis course. 

He pretended to be greatly alarmed, in 
order to frighten his father ; but in reality 
he considered the threat puerile. . 

Marie-Anne would have obtained the 
same assistance from him if she had not 
possessed this letter. 

Other influences had decided him: the 
difficulties and dangers of the undertak- 
ing, the risks to be incurred, the preju- 
dices to be braved. 

To save the life of Baron d'Escorval— 
an enemy— to w T rest him from the execu- 
tioner on the very steps of the scaffold, 


as it were, seemed to him a delightful 
enterprise. And to assure the happiness 
of the woman he adored* by saving the 
life of an enemy, even after his suit had 
been refused, seemed a chivalrous act 
worthy of him. 

Besides, what an opportunity it 
afforded for the exercise of liis sangfroid , 
his diplomatic talent, and the finesse 
upon w hich he prided himself ! 

It was necessary to make his father 
his dupe. That was an easy task. 

It was necessary to impose upon the 
credulity of the Marquis de Courtornieu. 
This was a difficult task, yet he suc- 
ceeded. 

But poor Chanlouineau could not con- 
ceive of such contradictions, and he was 
consumed with anxiety. 

Willingly would he "have consented to 
be put to the torture before receiving 
his death-blow, if he might have been 
allowed to follow Marie-Anne in her 
undertakings. 

What was she doing? How could he 
ascertain? 

A dozen times during the evening he 
called his guards, under every possible 
pretext, and tried to compel them to talk 
with him. He knew very well that these 
men could be no better informed on the 
subject than he was himself, that he 
could place no confidence in their reports 
— but that made no difference. 

The drums beat for the evening roll- 
call, then for the extinguishment of 
lights — after that, silence. 

Standing at the window of his cell, 
Chanlouineau concentrated all his fac- 
ulties in a superhuman effort of attention. 

It seemed to him, if the baron regained 
his liberty, he would be warned of it by 
some sign. Those whom he had saved 
owed him, he thought, this slight token 
of gratitude. 

A little after two o’clock he heard 
sounds that made him tremble. There 
was a great bustle in the corridors; 
guards running to and fro, and calling 
each other, a rattling of keys, and the 
opening and shutting of doors. 

The passage was suddenly illuminated; 
he looked out, and by the uncertain light 
of the lanterns, he thought he saw Lache- 
neur, as pale as a ghost, pass the cell, led 
by some soldiers. 

Lacheneur! Could this be possible? 
He doubted his own eyesight. He thought 
it must be a vision bcrn of the fever burn- 
ing in his brain. 

Later, he heard a despairing cry. But 
was it surprising that one should hear 
such a sound in a prison, wheye twenty 
men condemned to death were suffering 
the agony of that terrible night which 
precedes the day of execution. 

At last, the gray light of early dawn 
came creeping in through the prison bai s. 
Chanlouineau was in despair. 


224 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“The letter was useless !” he mur- 
mured. 

Poor generous peasant ! His heart 
would have leaped for jo}^ could he have 
cast a glance on the court-yard of the 
citadel. 

More than an hour had passed after 
*he sounding of the reveille , when two 
countrywomen, who were carrying their 
butter and eggs to market, presented 
themselves at the gate of the fortress. 

They declared that while passing- 
through the fields at the base of the pre- 
cipitous cliff upon which the citadel was 
built, they had discovered a rope dang- 
ling from the side of the rock. A rope f 
Then one of the condemned prisoners 
must have escaped. The guards hastened 
to Baron d’EscorvaPs room — it was 
empty. 

The baron had fled, taking with him 
the man who had been left to guard him 
— Corporal Bavois, of the grenadiers. 

The amazement was as intense as the 
indignation, but the fright was still 
greater. 

Tnere was not a single. officer w r ho did 
not tremble on thinking of his responsi- 
bility; not one who did n >t see his hopes 
of advancement blighted forever. 

What should they say to the formidable 
Duke de Sairmeuse and to the Marquis de 
Courtornieu, who, in spite of his calm 
and polished manners, was almost as 
much to be feared. It was necessary to 
warn them, however, and a sergeant was 
dispatched with the news. 

Soon they made their appearance, ac- 
companied by Martial; all frightfully 
angry. 

M. de Sairmeuse especially seemed be- 
side himself. 

He sw r ore at everybody, accused every- 
body, threatened everybody. 

He began by consigning all the keepers 
and guards to prison ; he even talked of 
demanding the dismissal of all the offi- 
cers. 

“As for that miserable Bavois,” he ex- 
claimed — “as for that cowardly deserter, 
he shall be shot as soon as we capture 
him, and we will capture him, you may 
depend upon it !” 

They had hoped to appease the duke's 
wrath a little, by informing him of Lache- 
neurs arrest; but he knew this already, 
for Chupin had ventured to awake him 
in the middle of the night to tell him the 
great new r s. 

The baron's escape afforded the duke 
an opportunity to exalt Chupin's merits. 

“The man who has discovered Lache- 
neur will know how to find this traitor 
D'Escorval,” he remarked. 

M. de Courtornieu, who w r as more 
calm, “took measures for the restoration 
of a great culprit to the hand of jus- 
tice,” as he said. 

He sent couriers in every direction, 


ordering them to make close inquiries 
throughout the neighborhood. 

His commands were brief, but to the 
point ; they were to watch the frontier, 
to submit all travellers to a rigorous ex- 
amination, to search the house, and to 
sow r the description of D'Escorval broad- 
cast through the land. 

But first of all he ordered the arrest 
both of Abbe Midon — the Cure of Sair- 
meuse, and of the son of Baron d'Escor- 
val. 

Among the officers present there was 
one, an old lieutenant, medaled and deco- 
rated, who had been deeply wounded by 
imputations uttered by the Duke de Sair- 
meuse. 

He stepped fonvard with a gloomy air, 
and said that these measures were doubt- 
less all very well, but the most pressing 
and urgent duty w r as to institute an in- 
vestigation at once, wdiich, while 
acquainting them with the method of 
escape, w r ould probably reveal the 
accomplices. 

On hearing the word “investigation,” 
neither the Duke de Sairmeuse nor the 
Marquis de Courtornieu could repress a 
slight shudder. 

They could not ignore the fact that 
their reputations were at stake, and that 
the merest trifle might disclose the 
truth. A precaution neglected, the most 
insignificant detail, a word, a gesture 
might ruin their ambitious hopes forever. 

They trembled to think that this officer 
might be a man of unusual shrew r dness, 
w ho had suspected their simplicity, and 
w-as impatient to verify his presumptions. 

No, the old lieutenant had not the 
slightest suspicion. He had spoken on 
the impulse of the moment, merely to 
give vent to his displeasure. He was 
not even keen enough to remark the 
rapid glance interchanged between the 
marquis and the duke. 

Martial noticed this look, however, and 
with a politeness too studied not to be 
ridicule, he addressed the lieutenant : 

“Yes we must institute an investiga- 
tion ; that suggestion is as shrewd as it 
is opportune,” he remarked. 

The old officer turned away with a 
muttered oath. 

“That coxcomb is poking fun at me,” 
he thought ; “and he and his father and 
that prig deserve — but what is one to 
do?” 

In spite of his bold remark, Martial 
felt that he must not incur the slightest 
risk. 

To w'hom must the charge of this in- 
vestigation be entrusted ? To the duke 
and to the marquis, of course, since they 
were the only persons who would know 
just how much to conceal, and just how 
much to disclose. 

They began their task immediately, 
with an cmpr easement which could not fail 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


225 


to silence all doubts, in case any existed 
in ihe minds of their subordinates. 

But who could be suspicious? The 
success of tlie plot had been all the more 
certain from the fact that the baron’s 
escape seemed likely to injure the in- 
terests of the very parties who had 
favored it. 

Martial thought he knew the details of 
the escape as exactly as the fugitives 
themselves. He had been the author, 
even if they had been the actors, of the 
drama of the preceding night. 

He was soon obliged to admit that he 
was mistaken in this opinion. 

The investigation revealed facts which 
seemed incomprehensible to him. 

It was evident that the Baron d'Escor- 
val and Corporal Bavois had been com- 
pelled to accomplish two successive de- 
scents. 

To do this the prisoners had realized 
(since they had succeeded) the necessity 
of having two ropes. Martial had pro- 
vided them; the prisoners must have 
used them. And yet only one rope 
could be found — the one which the peas- 
ant woman had perceived hanging from 
the rocky platform, where it was made 
fast to an iron crowbar. 

From the window to the platform, 
there was no rope 

“'This is most extraordinary !” 'mur- 
mured Martial, thoughtfully. 

“Very strange!” approved M. de Cor- 
tornieu. 

“llow the devil could they have 
reached the base of the tower?” 

“That is what I cannot understand.” 

But Martial found another cause for 
surprise. 

On examin’ng the rope that remained 
— the one which had been used in making 
the second descent — he discovered that it 
was not a single piece. Two pieces had 
been knotted together. The longest 
piece had evidently been too short. 

How did this happen? Could the duke 
have made a mistake in the height of the 
cliff? or had the abbe measured the rope 
incorrectly ? 

But Martial had also measured it with 
his eve, and it had seemed to him that 
the rope was much longer, fully a third 
longer, than it now appeared. 

“There must have been some acci- 
dent,” he remarked to his father and to 
the marquis; “but what?” 

“Well, what does it rmtter?” replied 
the marquis, “you have the compromis- 
ing letter, have you not?” 

But Martial’s was one of those minds 
that never rest when confronted by an 
unsolved problem. 

He insisted on going to inspect the 
rocks at the foot of the precipice. 

There they discovered large spots of 
blood. 

“One of the fugitives must have 

15 


fallen,” said Martial, quickly, “and was 
dangerously wounded!” 

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the 
Duke de Sairmeuse, “if Baron d'Escor- 
val has broken his neck, I shall be de- 
lighted!” 

Martial’s face turned crimson, and he 
looked searehingly at his father. 

“I suppose, monsieur, that you do not 
mean one word of what you are saying,” 
Martial said, coldly. We pledged our- 
selves, upon the honor of our name, to 
save Baron d Escorval. If he has been 
killed it will be a great misfortune for 
us, monsieur, a great misfortune.” 

When his son addressed him in his 
haughty and freezing tone the duke never 
knew how to reply. He was indignant, 
but his son’s was the stronger nature. 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed M. de Courtor- 
nieu; “if the rascal had merely been 
wounded we should have known it.” 

Such was the opinion of Chupin, who 
had been sent for by the duke, and who 
had just made his appearance. 

But the old scoundrel, who was usually 
so loquacious and so officious, replied 
briefly ; and, strange to say, did not oiler 
his services. 

Of his imperturbable assurance, of his 
wonted impudence, of his obsequious and 
cunning smile, absolutely nothing re- 
mained. 

His restless eyes, the contraction of his 
features, his gloomy manner, and the oc- 
casional shudder which he could not re- 
press, all betrayed his secret perturba- 
tion. 

So marked was the change that even 
the Duke de Sairmeuse observed it. 

“What calamity has happened to you. 
Master Chupin?” he inquired. 

“This has happened,” he responded, 
sullenly: “when I was coming here the 
children of the town threw mud and 
stones at me,«and ran after me, shouting : 
‘Traitor! traitor!’” 

He clenched his lists ; he seemed to be 
meditating vengeance, and he added : 

“The people of Montaignac are pleased. 
They know that the baron has escaped, 
and they are rejoicing.” 

Alas ! this joy was destined to be of 
short duration, for this was the day ap- 
pointed for the execution of the con- 
spirators. 

It was Wednesday. 

At noon the gates of the citadel were 
closed, and the gloom was profound and 
universal, when the heavy rolling of 
drums announced the preparations for 
the frightful holocaust. 

Consternation and fear spi ead through 
the town ; the silence of death made it- 
self felt on every side ; the streets were 
deserted, and the dooi*3 and shutters of 
every house were closed. 

At last, as three o’clock sounded, the 
gates of the fortress were opened to 


220 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


give passage to fourteen doomed men, 
each accompanied by a priest. 

Fourteen! for seized by remorse or 
fright at the last moment, M. de Courtor- 
nieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse had 
granted a reprieve to six of the prison- 
ers, and at that very hour a courier was 
hastening towards Paris with six peti- 
tions for pardon, signed by the Military 
Commission. 

Chanlouineau was not among those for 
whom royal clemency had been solicited. 

When he left his cell, without knowing 
whether or not his letter had availed, he 
counted the condemned with poignant 
anxiety. 

His eyes betrayed such an agony of 
anguish that the priest who accompanied 
him leaned towards him and whispered : 

“For whom are you looking, my son?” 

“For Baron d’Escorval.” 

“He escaped last night.” 

“Ah! now I shall die content!” ex- 
claimed the heroic peasant. 

He died as he had sworn he would die, 
without even changing color — calm and 
proud, the name of Marie-Anne upon 
his lips. 


CHAPTER LXXYI. 

An, well, there was one wom°o, a fair 
young girl, whose heart had not been 
touched by the sorrowful scenes of which 
Montaignac had been the theatre. 

Mile. Blanche de Courtornieu smiled as 
brightly as ever in the midst of a stricken 
people ; and surrounded by mourners, her 
lovely eyes remained dry. 

The daughter of a man who, for a week, 
exercised the power of a dictator, she did 
not lift her finger to save a single one of 
the condemned prisoners from the execu- 
tioner. • 

They had stopped her carriage on the 
public road. This was a crime which 
Mile, de Courtornieu could never forget. 

She also knew that she owed it to 
Marie-Anne's intercession that she had 
not been held prisoner. This she could 
never forgive. 

So it was with the bitterest resentment 
that, on the morning following her ar- 
rival in Montaignac, she recounted what 
she styled her ••humiliations” to her fa- 
ther, i. e . — the inconceivable arrogance of 
that Lacheneur girl, and the frightful 
brutality of which the peasants had been 
guilty. 

And when the Marquis de Courtornieu 
asked if she would consent to testify 
against Baron d'Escorval, she coldly re- 
plied : 

“1 think that such is my duty, and I 
shall fulfill it, however painful it may 
be.” 

She knew perfectly well that her dep- 


osition would be the baron*s death war- 
rant; but she persisted in her resolve, 
veiling her hatred and her insensibility 
under the name of virtue. 

But we must do her the justice to ad- 
mit that her testimony was sincere. 

She really believed that it was Baron 
d'Escorval who was with the rebels, and 
whose opinion Chanlouineau had asked. 

This error on the part of Mile. Blanche 
rose from the custom of designating 
Maurice by his Christian name, which 
prevailed in the neighborhood. 

In speaking of him every one said “M. 
Maurice.” When they said “M. d’Escor- 
val,” they referred to the baron. 

After this crushing evidence against 
the accused had been written and signed 
in her fine and aristocratic handwriting. 
Mile, de Courtornieu bore herself with 
partly real and partly affected indiffer- 
ence. She would not, on any account, 
have had people suppose that anything 
relating to these plebeians— these low 
peasants — could possibly disturb her 
proud serenity. She would not so much 
as ask a single question on the subject. . 

But this superb indifference was, in 
great measure, assumed. In her inmost 
soul she was blessing this conspiracy 
which had caused so many tears and so 
much blood to flow. Had it not removed 
her rival from her path ? 

“Now,” she thought, “the marquis 
will return to me, and I will make him 
forget the bold creature who has be- 
witched him!” 

Chimeras ! The charm had vanished 
which had once caused the love of Mar- 
tial de Sairmeuse to oscillate between 
Mile, de Courtornieu and the daughter of 
Lacheneur. 

Captivated at first by the charms of 
Mile. Blanche, he soon discovered the 
calculating ambition and the utter world- 
liness concealed beneath such seeming 
simplicity and candor. Nor was he long 
in discerning her intense vanity, her lack 
of principle, and her unbounded self- 
ishness; and, comparing her with the 
noble and generous Mane-Anne, his ad- 
miration was changed into indifference, 
or rather repugnance. 

He did return to her, however, or at 
least he seemed to return to her, ac- 
tuated, perhaps, by that inexplicable 
sentiment that impels us sometimes to do 
that which is most distasteful to us, and 
by a feeling of discouragement and 
despair, knowing that Marie-Anne was 
now lost to him forever. 

He also said to himself that a pledge 
had been interchanged betweed the duke 
and the Marquis de Courtornieu; that 
he, too, had given his word, and that 
Mile. Blanche was his betrothed. 

Was it worth while to *break this en- 
gagement? Would he not be compelled 
to marry some day? Why not fulfill the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


227 


pledge that had been made? He was as 
willing to marry Mile, de Courtornieu as 
any one else, since he was sure that the 
only woman whom he had ever truly 
loved — the only woman whom he ever 
could love — was never to be his. 

Master of himself when near her, and 
sure that he would ever remain the same, 
it was easy to play the part of lover with 
that perfection and that charm which — 
sad as it is to say it — the real passion 
seldom or never attains. He was assisted 
by his self-love, and also by that instinct 
of duplicity which leads a man to con- 
tradict his thoughts by Ills acts. 

But while he seemed to be occupied 
only with thoughts of his approaching 
marriage, his mind was full of intense 
anxiety concerning Baron d’Escorval. 

What had become of the baron and of 
Bavois after their escape? What had 
become of those w ho were awaiting them 
on the rocks — for Martial knew all their 
plans — Mine. d'Escorval and Marie-Anne. 
theabbe and Maurice, and the four offi- 
cers ? 

There were, then, ten persons in all 
who had disappeared. And Martial 
asked himself again and again how it 
could be possible for so many individuals 
to mjeteriously disappear, leaving no 
trace behind them. 

“It unquestionably denotes a superior 
ability,” thought Martial, “I recognize 
the hand of the priest.” 

It was, indeed, remarkable, since the 
search ordered by the Duke de Sairmeuse 
and the marquis had been pursued with 
feverish activity, greatly to the terror of 
those who had instituted it. Still what 
could they do? They had imprudently 
excited the zeal of their subordinates, 
and now they w r ere unable to moderate 
it. But fortunately all efforts to discover 
the fugitives had proved unavailing. 

One witness testified, however, that on 
the morning of the escape, he met, just 
before daybreak, a party of about a dozen 
persons, men and women, who seemed to 
be carrying a dead body. 

This circumstance, taken in connection 
with the broken rope and the blood 
stains, made Martial tremble. 

He had also been strongly impressed 
by another circumstance, which was re- 
vealed as the investigation progressed. 

All the soldiers who were on guard 
that eventful night were interrogated. 
One of them testified as follows : 

“I was on guard in the corridor com- 
municating with the prisoner’s apart- 
ment in the tower, when at about half- 
past two o’clock, after Lacheneur had 
been placed in his cell, I saw an officer 
approaching me. I challenged him ; he 
ave me the countersign, and, naturally, 
allowed him to pass. He went down 
the corridor, and entered the room ad- 
joining that in which M. d Escorval was 


confined. He remained there about five 
minutes. 

“Did you recognize this officer?” Mar- 
tial eagerly inquired. 

And the soldier answered: “No. He 
wore a large cloak, the collar of which 
was turned up so high that it covered his 
face to the very eyes.” 

“Who could this mysterious officer 
have been? What was he doing in the 
room where the ropes had been de- 
posited? 

Martial racked his brain to discover an 
answer to these questions. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu himself 
seemed much disturbed. 

“How could you be ignorant that there 
were many sympathizers with this move- 
ment in the garrison?” he said, angrily. 
“You might have known that this visitor, 
who concealed his face so carefully, was 
an accomplice who had been warned by 
Bavois, and who came to see if he needed 
a helping hand.” 

This was a plausible explanation, still 
it did not satisfy Martial. 

“It is very strange,” he thought, “that 
M. d’Escorval has not even deigned to 
let me know he is in safety. The service 
which I have rendered him deserves that 
acknowledgment, at least.” 

Such was his disquietude that he re- 
solved to apply to Chupin, even though 
this traitor inspired him with extreme 
repugnance. 

But it was no longer easy to obtain the 
services of the old spy. Since he had 
received the price of Lacheneur’s blood — 
the twenty thousand francs which had so 
fascinated him — Chupin had deserted the 
house of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

He had taken up his quarters in a small 
inn on the outskirts of the town ; and he 
spent his days alone in a large room on 
the second floor. 

At night he barricaded the doors, and 
drank, drank, drank ; and until daybreak 
they could hear him cursing and singing, 
or struggling against imaginary enemies. 

Still he dared not disobey the order 
brought by a soldier, summoning him to 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once. 

“I wish to discover what has become 
of Baron d’Escorval,” said Martial. 

Chupin trembled, he who had formerly 
been bronze, and a fleeting color dyed his 
cheeks. 

“The Montaignac police are at your 
disposal,” he answered sulkily. “They, 
perhaps, can satisfy the curiosity of 
Monsieur le Marquis. I do not belong to 
the police.” 

Was he in earnest, or was he endeavor- 
ing to augment the value of his services 
by refusing them? Martial inclined to 
the latter opinion. 

“You shall have no reason to complain 
of my generosity,” said he. “I will pay 
you well.” 


223 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


But on hearing the word “pay,” which 
would have made his eyes gleam with 
delight a week before, Chupin flew into 
a furious passion. 

“So it was to tempt me again that you 
summoned me here!” he exclaimed. 
“You would do better to leave me quietly 
at my inn.” 

“What do you mean, fool?” 

But Chupin did not even hear this in- 
terruption, and, with increasing fury, he 
continued : 

“They told me that, by betraying 
Lacheneur, I should be doing my duty 
and serving the king. I betrayed him, 
and now I am treated as if I had com- 
mitted the worst of crimes. Formerly, 
when I lived by stealing and poaching, 
they despised me, perhaps; but they did 
not shun me as they did the pestilence. 
They called me rascal, robber, and the 
like ; but they would drink with me all the 
same. To-day I have twenty thousand 
francs, and I am treated as if I were a 
venomous beast. If I approach a man, 
he draws back ; if I enter a room, those 
who are there leave it.” 

The recollection of the insults he had 
received made him more and more fran- 
tic with rage. 

“Was the act I committed so ignoble 
and abominable?” he pursued. “Then 
why did your father propose it? The 
shame should fall on him. He should 
not have tempted a poor man with wealth 
like that. If, on the contrary, I have 
done well, let them make laws to protect 
me.” 

Martial comprehended the necessity of 
reassuring this troubled mind. 

“Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I do not 
ask you to discover M. d'Escorval in 
order to denounce him; far from it — I 
only desire you to ascertain if any one at 
Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, 
knows of his having crossed the fron- 
tier.” 

On hearing the name Saint-Jean-de- 
Coche, Chupin’s face blanched. 

“Do you wish me to be murdered?” he 
exclaimed, remembering Balstain and his 
vow. “I would have you know that I 
value my life, now that I am rich.” 

And seized with a sort of panic he fled 
precipitately. Martial was stupefied with 
astonishment. 

“One might really suppose that the 
wretch was sorry for what he had done,” 
he thought. 

If that was really the case, Chupin was 
not alone. 

M. de Courtornieu and the Duke de 
Sairmeuse were secretly blaming them- 
selves for the exaggerations in their first 
reports, and the manner in which they h id 
magnified the proportions of the rebel- 
lion. They accused each other of undue 
haste, of neglect of the proper forms of 


procedure, and the injustice of the ver- 
dict rendered. 

Each endeavored to make the other 
responsible for the blood which had been 
spilled : one tried to cast the public odi- 
um upon the other. 

Meanwhile they were both doing their 
best to obtain a pardon for the six pris- 
oners who had been reprieved. 

They did not succeed. 

One night a courier arrived at Mon- 
taignac, bearing the following laconic 
dispatch : 

“The twentyrone convicted prisoners 
must be executed.” 

That is to say, the Duke de Richelieu, 
and the council of ministers, headed by 
M. Decazes, the minister of police, had 
decided that the petitions for clemency 
must be refused. 

This dispatch was a terrible blow to 
the Duke de Sairmeuse and M. de Cour- 
tornieu. They knew, better than any 
one else, how little these poor men, 
whose lives they had tried, too late, to 
save, deserved death. They knew it 
would soon be publicly proven that 
two of the six men had taken no part 
whatever in the conspiracy. 

What was to be done? 

Martial desired his father to resign his 
authority ; but the duke had not courage 
to do it. 

M. de Courtornieu encouraged him. 
He admitted that all this was very unfor- 
tunate, but declared, since the wine had 
been drawn, that it was necessary to 
drink it, and that one could not draw 
back now without causing a terrible scan- 
dal. 

The next day the dismal rolling of drums 
was again heard, and the six doomed 
men, two of whom were known to be 
innocent, were led outside the walls of 
the citadel and shot, on the same spot 
where, only a week before, fourteen of 
their comrades had fallen. 

And the prime mover in the conspiracy 
had not yet been tried. 

Confined in the cell next to that which 
Chanlouineau had occupied, Lacheneur 
had fallen into a state of gloomy de- 
spondency, which lasted during his 
whole term of imprisonment. He was 
terribly broken, both in body and in 
mind. 

Once only did the blood mount to his 
pallid cheek, and that was on the morn- 
ing when the Duke de Sairmeuse entered 
the cell to interrogate him. 

“It was you who drove me to do what 
I did,” he said. “God sees us, and judges 
us !” 

Unhappy man! his faults had been 
great : his chastisement was terrible. 

He had sacrificed his children on the 
altar of his wounded pride ; he had not 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


229 


even the consolation of pressing them 
to his heart and of asking their forgive- 
ness before he died. 

Alone in his cell, he could not distract 
his mind from thoughts of his son and 
of his daughter ; but such was the terri- 
ble situation in which he had placed him- 
self that he dared not ask what had be- 
come of them. 

Through a compassionate keeper, he 
learned that nothing had been heard of 
Jean, and that it was supposed Marie- 
Anne had gone to some foreign country 
with the d'Escorval family. 

When summoned before the court for 
trial, Lacheneur was calm and dignified 
in manner. He attempted no defense, 
but responded with perfect frankness. 
He took all the blame upon himself, and 
would not give the name of one of his 
accomplices. 

Condemned to be beheaded, he was ex- 
ecuted on the following day. In spite of 
the rain, he desired to walk to the place 
of execution. When he reached the scaf- 
fold, he ascended the steps with a firm 
tread, and, of his own accord, placed his 
head upon the block. 

A few seconds later, the rebellion of 
the fourth of March counted its twenty- 
first victim. 

And that same evening the people 
- everywhere were talking of the magnifi- 
cent rewards which were to be bestowed 
upon the Duke de Sairineuse and the 
Marquis de Courtornieu ; and it was also 
asserted that the nuptials of the child- 
ren of these great houses were to take 
place before the close of the week. 


CHAPTER LXXVH. 

That Martial de Sairmeuse was to 
marry Mile. Blanche de Courtornieu did 
not surprise the inhabitants of Montaig- 
nac in the least. 

But spreading such a report, with 
Lacheneur’s execution fresh in the minds 
of every one, could not fail to bring 
odium upon these men who had held ab- 
solute power, and who had exercised it 
so mercilessly. 

Heaven knows that M. de Courtornieu 
and the Duke de Sairmeuse were now 
doing their best to make the people of 
Montaignac forget the atrocious cruelty 
of which they had been guilty during 
their dictatorship. 

Of the hundred or more who were 
confined in the citadel, only eighteen or 
twenty were tried, and they received 
only some very slight punishment; the 
others were released. 

Major Carini, the leader of the conspi- 
rators in Montaignac. who had expected 
to lose his head, heard himself, with 


astonishment, sentenced to two years’ 
imprisonment. 

But there are crimes which nothing can 
efface or extenuate. Public opinion 
attributed this sudden clemency on the 
part of the duke and the marquis to fear. 

People execrated them for their cru- 
elty, and despised them for their apparent 
cowardice. 

They were ignorant of this, however, 
and hastened forward the preparations 
for the nuptials of their children, with- 
out suspecting that the marriage was 
considered a shameless defiance of public 
sentiment on their part. 

The seventeenth of April was the day 
which had been appointed for the bridal, 
and the wedding feast was to be held at 
the Chateau de Sairmeuse which, at a 
great expense, had been transformed 
into a fairy palace for the occasion. 

It was in the church of the little 
village of Sairmeuse, on the loveliest of 
spring days that this marriage ceremony 
was performed by the cure who had 
taken the place of poor Abbe Midon. 

At the close of the address to the 
newly wedded pair, the priest uttered 
these words, which he believed pro- 
phetic : 

‘‘You will be, you must be happy !” 

Who would not have believed as he did? 
Where could two young people be found 
more richly dowered with all the 
attributes likely to produce happiness, 
i. e. — youth, rank, health, and riches. 

But though an intense joy sparkled in 
the eyes of the new Marquis de Sair- 
meuse, there were those among the 
guests who observed the bridegroom’s 
preoccupation. One might have sup- 
posed that he was making an effort to 
drive away some gloomy thought. 

At the moment whin his young wife 
hung upon his arm, proud and radiant, a 
vision of Marie-Anne rose before him, 
more life-like, more potent than ever. 

What had become of her that she had 
not been seen at the time of her father’s 
execution? Courageous as he knew her 
to be, if she had made no attempt to see 
her father, it must have been because 
she was ignorant of his approaching 
doom. 

“Ah! if she had but loved him,” 
Martial thought, “what happiness would 
have been his. But, now he was bound 
for life to a woman whom he did not 
love.” 

At dinner, however, he succeeded in 
shaking off the sadness that oppressed 
him, and when the guests rose to repair 
to the drawing-rooms, he had almost for- 
gotten his dark forebodings. 

He was rising in his turn, when a 
servant approached him with a myste- 
rious air. 

“Some one desires to see the marquis,” 
whispered the valet. 


230 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“Who?” 

“A young peasant who will not give 
his name.” 

u On one’s wedding-day, one must 

f rant an audience to everybody,” said 
[artial. 

And gay and smiling he descended the 
staircase. 

In the vestibule, lined with rare and 
fragrant plants, stood a young man. He 
was very pale, and his eyes glittered 
with feverish brilliancy. 

On recognizing him Martial could not 
restrain an exclamation of surprise. 

“Jean Lacheneur 1” he exclaimed; “im- 
prudent man !” 

The young man stepped forward. 

“You believed that you were rid of 
me,” he said, bitterly. “Instead, I re- 
turn from afar. You can have your 
people arrest me if you choose.” 

Martial's face crimsoned at the insult ; 
but he retained his composure. 

“What do you desire?” he asked, 
coldly. 

Jean drew from his pocket a folded 
letter. 

“I am to give you this on behalf of 
Maurice d’Escorval.” 

With an eager hand, Martial broke the 
seal. He glanced over the letter, turned 
as pale as death, staggered and said only 
one word : 

“Infamous !” 

“What must I say to Maurice, insisted 
Jean. “What do you intend to do?” 

With a terrible effort Martial had con- 
quered his weakness. He seemed to de- 
liberate for ten seconds, then seizing 
Jean's arm, he dragged him up the stair- 
case, saying: 

“Come — you shall see.” 

Martial’s countenance had changed so 
much during the three minutes he had 
been absent that there was an exclama- 
tion of terror when he reappeared, 
holding an open letter in one hand and 
leading with the other a young peasant 
whom no one recognized. 

“Where is my father?” he demanded, 
in a husky voice ; “where is the Marquis 
de Courtornieu?” 

The duke and the marquis were with 
Mine. Blanche in the little salon at the 
end of the main hall, 

Martial hastened there, followed by a 
crowd of wondering guests, who, fore- 
seeing a stormy scene, were determined 
not to lose a syllable. 

He walked directly to M. de Courtor- 
nieu, who was standing by the fire-place, 
and handing him the letter : 

“Read !” said he, in a terrible voice. 

M. de Courtornieu obeyed. He became 
livid ; the paper trembled in his hands : 
his eyes fell, and he was obliged to lean 
against the marble mantel for support. 

“I do not understand,” he stammered : 
“no, I do not understand.” 


The duke and Mme. Blanche both 
sprang forward. 

“What is it?” they asked, in a breath; 
“what has happened?” 

With a rapid movement, Martial tore 
the paper from the hands of the Marquis 
de Courtornieu, and addressing his 
father : 

“Listen to this letter,” he said, im- 
periously. 

Three hundred people were assembled 
there, but the silence was so profound 
that the voice of the young marquis pen- 
etrated to the farthest extremity of the 
hall as he read : 

“Monsieur le Marquis— In exchange 
for a dozen lines that threatened you 
with ruin, you promised us, upon the 
honor of your name, the life of Baron 
d’Escorval, 

“You did, indeed, bring the ropes by 
which he was to make his escape, but 
they had been previously cut. and my 
father was precipitated to the rocks 
below. 

“You have forfeited your honor, mon- 
sieur. You have soiled your name with 
ineffaceable opprobrium. While so much 
as a drop of blood remains in my veins, I 
will leave no means untried to punish 
you for your cowardice and vile treason. 

“By killing me you would, it is true, 
escape the chastisement I am reserving 
for you. Consent to fight with me. 
Shall I await you to-morrow on the 
Reche? At what hour? With what 
weapons? 

“If you are the vilest of men, you can 
appoint a rendezvous, and then send your 
gendarmes to arrest me. That would be 
an act worthy of you. 

Maurice d' Escorvau.” 

The duke was in despair. He saw the 
secret of the baron’s flight made public — 
his political prospects ruined. 

“Hush!” he said, hurriedly, and in a 
low voice; “hush, wretched man, you 
will ruin us !” 

But Martial seemed not even to hear 
him. When he had finished his reading: 

“Now, what do you think?” he de- 
manded, looking the Marquis de Cour- 
tornieu full in the face. 

“I am still unable to comprehend,” 
said the old nobleman, coldly. 

Martial lifted his hand; every one 
believed that he was about to strike the 
man who had been his father-in-law only 
a few hours. 

‘"Very well! /comprehend!’ he ex- 
claimed. “1 know now who that officer 
was who entered the room in which I 
had deposited the ropes — and I know 
what took him there.” 

He crumbled the letter between his 
hands and threw it in M. de Courtornieu’ s 
face, saying : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


231 


“Here is your reward — coward !” 

Overwhelmed by this denouement the 
marquis sank into an arm-chair, and 
Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by 
the arm, was leaving the room, when his 
young wife, wild with despair, tried to 
detain him. 

“You shall not go!” she exclaimed, 
intensely exasperated; “you shall not! 
Where are you going? To rejoin the 
sister of this man, whom I now recog- 
nize ?” 

Beside himself, Martial pushed his wife 
roughly aside. 

“Wretch!” said he, “how dare you 
insult the noblest and purest of women? 
Ah, well — yes — I am going to find Marie- 
Anne. Farewell !” 

And he passed on. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

The ledge of rock upon which Baron 
d’Eseorval and Corporal Bavois rested in 
their descent from the tower was very 
narrow. 

. In the widest place it did not measure 
more than a yard and a half, and its 
surface was uneven, cut by innumerable 
fissures and crevices, and sloped suddenly 
at the edge. To stand there in the day- 
time, with the wall of the tower behind 
one, and the precipice at one’s feet, would 
have been considered very imprudent. 

Of course,* the task of lowering a man 
from this ledge, at dead of night, was 
perilous in the extreme. 

Before allowing the baron to descend, 
horiest Bavois took every possible pre- 
caution to save himself from being 
dragged over the verge of the precipice 
by "the weight he would be obliged to 
sustain. 

He placed his crowbar firmly in a 
crevice of the rock, then bracing his feet 
against the bar, he seated himself firmly, 
throwing his shoulders well back, and it 
was only when he was sure of his position 
that he said to the baron : 

“I am here, and firmly fixed, comrade; 
now let yourself down.” 

The sudden parting of the rope hurled 
the brave corporal rudely against the 
tower wall, then he was thrown for- 
ward by the rebound. 

His unalterable sang-froid was all that 
saved him. 

For more than a minute he hung sus- 
pended over the abyss into which the 
baron had just fallen, and his hands 
clutched at the empty air. 

A hasty movement, and he would have, 
fallen. 

But he possessed a marvellous power 
of will, which prevented him from at- 
tempting any violent effort. Prudently, 


but with determined energy, he screwed 
his feet and his knees into the crevices of 
the rock, feeling with his hands for some 
point of support, and gradually sinking 
to one side, he finally succeeded in drag- 
ging himself from the verge of the preci- 
pice. • 

It was time, for a cramp seized him 
with such viole ee that he was obliged to 
sit down and rest for a moment. 

That the baron had been killed by his 
fall, Bavois did not doubt for an instant. 
But this catastrophe did not produce 
much effect upon the old soldier, who 
had seen so many comrades fall by his 
side on the field of battle. 

What did amaze him was the breaking 
of the rope — a rope so large that one 
would have supposed it capable of sus- 
taining the weight of ten men like the 
baron. 

As he could not, by reason of the dark- 
ness, see the ruptured place, Bavois felt 
it with his finger; and, to his inexpressi- 
ble astonishment, he found it smooth. 
No filaments, no rough bits of hemp, as 
usual after a break ; the surface was per- 
fectly even. 

• The corporal comprehended what Mau- 
rice had comprehended below. 

“The scoundrels have cut the rope!” 
he exclaimed, with a frightful oath. 

And a recollection of what had hap- 
pened three or four hours previous arose 
in his mind. 

“This,” he thought, “explains the 
noise which the poor baron heard in the 
next room! And I said to him: ‘Non- 
sense! it is a rat!’ ” 

Then he thought of a very simple 
method of verifying his conjectures. He 
passed the cord about the crowbar and 
pulled it with all his strength. It parted 
in three places. 

This discovery appalled him. 

A part of the rope had fallen with the 
unfortunate baron, and it was evident 
that the remaining fragments tied to- 
gether would not be long enough to reach 
to the base of the rock. 

From this isolated ledge it was impos- 
sible to reach the ground upon which the 
citadel was built, 

“You are in a fine fix, corporal,” he 
growled. 

Honest Bavois looked the situation full 
in the face, and saw that it was des- 
perate. 

“Well, corporal, your jig is up !” he 
murmured. “At daybreak they will find 
that the baron’s cell is empty. They will 
poke their heads out of the window, and 
they will see you here, like a stone saint 
upon his pedestal. Naturally, you will 
be captured, tried, condemned; and you 
will be led out to take your turn in the 
ditches. Ready! Aim! Fire! And that 
will be the end of your story.” 

He stopped short. A vague idea had 


232 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


entered his mind, which he felt might 
possibly be his salvation. 

It came to him in touching the rope 
which he had used in his descent from 
the prison to the ledge, and which, firmly 
attached to the bars, hung down the side 
of the tower. • 

“If you had that rope which hangs 
there useless, corporal, you could add it 
to these fragments, and then it would be 
long enough to carry you to the foot of 
the rock. But how shall I obtain it? It 
is certainly impossible to go back after 
it ! and how can I pull it down when it is 
so securely fastened to the bars?” 

He sought a way, found it, and pur- 
sued it, talking to himself all the while as 
if there were two corporals; one prompt 
to conceive, the other, a trifle stupid, to 
whom it was necessary to explain every- 
thing in detail. 

“Attention, corporal,” said he. “You 
are going to knot these five pieces of 
rope together and attach them to your 
waist ; then you are going to climb up to 
that window, hand over hand. Not an 
easy matter! A carpeted staircase is 
preferable to that rope dangling there. 
But no matter, you are not finical, cor- 
poral! So you climb it, and here you 
are in the cell again. What are you go- 
ing to do? A mere nothing. You are 
unfastening the cord attached to the bars ; 
you will tie it to this, and that will give 
you eighty feet of good strong rope. 
Then you will pass the rope about one of 
the bars that remain intact ; the rope will 
thus be doubled ; then you let yourself 
down again, and when you are here, you 
have only to untie one of the knots, and 
the rope is at your service. Do you un- 
derstand, corporal?” 

The corporal did understand so well 
that in less than twenty minutes he was 
back again upon the narrow shelf of rock, 
the difficult and dangerous operation 
which he had planned accomplished. 

Not without a terrible effort; not with- 
out torn and bleeding hands and knees. 

But he had succeeded in obtaining the 
rope, and now he was certain that he 
could make his escape from his danger- 
ous position. He laughed gleefully, or 
rather with that chuckle which was 
habitual to him. 

Anxiety, then joy, had made him for- 
get M. d’Escorval. At the thought of 
him, he was smitten with remorse. 

“Poor man!” he murmured. “I shall 
succeed in saving my miserable life, for 
which no one cares, but I was unable to 
save him. Undoubtedly, by this time his 
friends have carried him away.” 

As he uttered these words he was lean- 
ing over the abyss. He doubted the evi- 
dence of his own senses when he saw a 
faint light moving here and there in the 
depths below. 

What had happened? For something 


very extraordinary must have happened 
to induce intelligent men like the baron's 
friends to display this light, which, if ob- 
served from the citadel, would betray 
their presence and ruin them. 

But Corporal Bavois’s moments were 
too precious to be wasted in idle conjec- 
tures. 

“Better go down on the double-quick,” 
he said aloud, as if to spur on his cour- 
age. “Come, my friend, spit on your 
hands and be off !” 

As he spoi'e the old soldier threw him- 
self flat on his belly and crawled slowly 
backwards to the verge of the preci- 
pice. The spirit was strong, but the 
flesh shuddered. To march upon a bat- 
tery had always been a mere pastime to 
the worthy corporal ; but to face an un- 
known peril, to suspend one's life upon a 
cord, was a different matter. 

Great drops of perspiration, caused by 
the horror of his situation, stood out 
upon his brow when he felt that half his 
body had passed the edge of the preci- 
pice, and that the slightest movement 
would now launch him into space. 

He made this movement, murmuring : 

“If there is a God who watches over 
honest people let Him open His eyes this 
instant !” 

The God of the just was watching. 

Bavois arrived at the end of his danger- 
ous journey with torn and bleeding hands, 
but safe. 

He fell like a mass of rock ; and the 
rudeness of the shock drew from him a 
groan resembling the roar of an infuri- 
ated beast. 

For more than a minute he lay there 
upon the ground stunned and dizzy. 

When he rose two men seized him 
roughly. 

“Ah’ no foolishness,” he said quickly. 
“It is I, Bavois.” 

This did not cause them to relax their 
hold. 

“How does it happen.'’ demanded one, 
in a threatening tone, “that Baron d’ 
Escorval falls and you succeed in mak- 
ing the descent in safety a few moments 
later?” 

The old soldier was too shrewd not to 
understand the whole import of this 
insulting question. 

The sorrow and indignation aroused 
within him gave him strength to free 
himself from the hands of his captors. 

“Mille tonnerresl” he exclaimed, “sol 
pass for a traitor, do I! No, it is impos- 
sible — listen to me.” 

Then rapidly, but with surprising 
clearness, he related all the details of his 
escape, his despair, his perilous situation, 
and the almost insurmountable obstacles’ 
which he had overcome. To hear was 
to believe. 

The men— they were, of course, tie 
retired army oflicers who had been wait- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


233 


ing for the baron — offered the honest 
corporal their hands, sincerely sorry 
that they had wounded the feelings of a 
man who was so worthy of their respect 
and gratitude. 

“You will forgive us, corporal, “they 
said, sadly. “Misery renders men sus-> 
picious and unjust, and we are very 
unhappy.” 

“No offence,” he growled. “If I had 
trusted poor M. d’Escorval, he would be 
alive now.” 

“The baron still breathes,” said one of 
the officers. 

This was such astounding news that 
Bavois was utterly confounded for a 
moment. 

“Ah! I will give my right hand, if 
necessary, to save him !” he exclaimed, at 
last. 

“If it is possible to save him, he will 
be saved, my friend. That worthy priest 
whom you see there, is an excellent phy- 
sician. He is examining M. d’Escorval's 
wounds now. It was by his order that 
we procured and lighted this candle, 
which may bring our enemies upon us at 
any moment ; but this is not a time for 
hesitation.” 

Bavois looked with all his eyes, but 
from where he was standing he could 
discover only a confused group of mov- 
ing figures. 

“I would like to see the poor man,’ he 
said, sadly. 

“Come nearer, my good fellow; fear 
nothing !” 

He stepped forward, and by the flicker- 
ing light of the candle which Marie- 
Anne held, he saw a spectacle which 
moved him more than the horrors of the 
bloodiest battle field. 

The baron was lying upon the ground, 
his head supported on Mme. d’Escorval’s 
knee. 

His face was not disfigured; but he 
was pale as death itself, and his eyes 
were closed. 

At intervals a convulsive shudder 
shook his frame, and a stream of blood 
gushed from his mouth. 

His clothing was hacked — literally 
hacked in pieces ; and it was easy to see 
that his body had sustained many fright- 
ful wounds. 

Kneeling beside the unconscious man, 
Abbe Midon, with admirable dexterity, 
was staunching the blood and applying 
bandages which had been torn from the 
linen of those present. 

Maurice and one of the officers were 
assisting him. 

“Ah ! if I had my hands on the scoun- 
drel who cut the rope.” cried the corporal, 
in a passion of indignation ; “but patience. 
I shall have him yet.” 

“Do you know who it was?” 

“Only too well !” 

He said no more. The abbe had done 


jail it was possible to do, and he now lift- 
ed the wounded man a little higher on 
Mme d’Escorval's knee. 

This change of position elicited a moan 
that betrayed the unfortunate baron's in- 
tense sufferings. He opened his eyes and 
faltered a few words — they were the first 
he had uttered. 

“Firmin !” he murmured, “Firmin !” 

It was the name of the baron’s former 
secretary, a man who had been absolutely 
devoted to his master, but who had been . 
dead for several years. 

It was evident that the baron's mind 
was wandering. Still he had some vague 
idea of his terrible situation, for in 
a stifled, almost inaudible voice, he 
added : 

“Oh ! how I suff r ! Firmin, I will not 
fall into the hands of the Marquis de 
Courtornieu alive. You shall kill me 
rather — do you hear me? I command 
it.” 

This was all; then his eyes closed 
ag in, and his head fell back a dead 
weight. One would have supposed that 
he had yielded up his last sigh. 

Such was the opinion of the officers : 
and it was with poignant anxiety they 
diew the abbe a little aside. 

“Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there 
any hope?” 

The priest sadly shook his head, an l 
pointing to heaven : 

“My hope is in God!” he said, rever- 
ently. * 

The hour, the place, the te 1 rible catas- 
trophe, the present danger, the threaten- 
ing future, all combined to lend a deep 
solemnity to the words of the priest. 

So profound was the impression that, 
for more than a minute, these men, famil- 
iar with peril and scenes of horror, stood 
in awed silence. 

Maurice, who approached, followed by 
Corporal Bavois, brou ht them back to 
the exigencies of the present. 

“Ought we not to make haste and carry 
away my father?” he asked. “Must we 
not be in Piedmont before evening?” 

“Yes!” exclaimed the officers, “let us 
start at once.” 

But the priest did not move, and in a 
despondent voice, he said : 

“To make any attempt to carry M. d’ 
Escorval across the frontier in his pres- 
ent condition would cost him his life.” 

This see: ned >o inevitably a death-war- 
rant for them all, that they shuddered. 

“My God ! what shall we do?” faltered 
Maurice. “What course shall we pur- 
sue ?” 

Not a voice replied. It was clear that 
they hoped for salvation through the 
priest alone. 

He was lost in thought, and it was 
some time before he spoke. 

“About an hour’s walk from here,” he 
said, at last, “beyond the Croix-d’Arey, 


234 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


is the hut of a peasant upon whom I can 
rely. His name is Poignot ; and he was 
formerly in M. Lacheneur’s employ. 
With the assistance of his three sons, he 
now tills quite a large farm. We must 
procure a litter and carry M. d’Escorval 
to the house of this honest peasant.” 

“What, monsieur,” interrupted one of 
the officers, “you wish us to procure a 
litter at this hour of the night, and in 
this neighborhood?” 

“It must be done.” 

“But, will it not awaken suspicion?” 

‘•Most assuredly.” 

“The Montaignac police will follow 
us.” 

“I am certain of it.” 

The baron will be recaptured?” 

“No.” 

The abbe spoke in the tone of a man 
who, by virtue of assuming all the re- 
sponsibility, feels that he has a right to 
be obeyed. 

“When the baron has been conveyed to 
Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of 
you gentlemen will take the wounded 
man’s place upon the litter ; the others 
will carry him, and the party will remain 
together until it has reached Piedmontese 
territory. Then you will separate and 
pretend to conceal yourselves, but do it 
in such a way that you are seen every- 
where.” 

All present comprehended the priest’s 
simple plan. 

They were to throw the emissaries sent 
by the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu off the track; and 
at the very moment it was apparently 
proven that the baron was in the moun- 
tains, he would be safe in Poignot’s 
house. 

“One word more,” added the priest. 
“It will be necessary to make the cortege 
which accompanies the pretended baron 
resemble as much as possible the little 
party that would be likely to attend M. 
d’Eseorval. Mile. Lacheneur will ac- 
company you; Maurice also. People 
know that I would not leave the baron, 
who is my friend; my priestly robe 
would attract attention ; one of you must 
assume it. God will forgive this decep- 
tion on account of its worthy motive. 

It was now necessary to procure the 
litter; and the officers were trying to 
decide where they should go to obtain it, 
when Corporal Bavois interrupted them. 

“Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he 
remarked; “I know an inn not far from 
here where I can procure one.” 

He departed on the run, and five 
minutes later re-appeared with a small 
litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. 
He had thought of everything. 

The wounded man was lifted carefully 
and placed upon the mattress. 

A long and difficult operation which, 


in spite of extreme caution, drew many 
terrible groans from the baron. 

When all was ready, each officer took 
an end of the litter, and the little pro- 
cession, headed by the abbe, started on 
its way. They were obliged to proceed 
slowly on account of the suffering which 
the least jolting inflicted upon the baron. 
Still they made some progress, and by 
daybreak they were about half way to 
Poignot’s house. 

It was then that they met some peas- 
ants going to their daily toil. Both men 
and women paused to look at them, and 
when the littlq cortege had passed they 
still stood gazing curiously after these 
people who were apparently carrying a 
dead body. 

The priest did not seem to trouble him- 
self in regard to these encounters; at 
least, he made no attempt to avoid them. 

But he did seem anxious and cautious 
when, after a three hours’ march, they 
came in sight of Poignot’s cottage. 

Fortunately there was a little grove 
not far from the house. The abbe made 
the party enter it, recommending the 
strictest prudence, while he went on in 
advance to confer with this man, upon 
whose decision the safety of the whole 
party depended. 

As the priest approached the house, a 
small, thin man with gray hair and a sun- 
burned face emerged from the stable. 

It was Father Poignot. 

“What ! is this you. Monsieur le Cure !” 
he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! 
how pleased my wife will be. We have 
a great favor to ask of you ” 

And then, without giving the abbe an 
opportunity to open his lips, he began to 
tell him his perplexities. The night of 
the revolt he had given shelter to a poor 
man who had received an ugly sword- 
thirst. Neither his wife nor himself 
knew how to dress the wound, and he 
dared not call in a physician. 

“And this wounded man,” he added, 
“is Jean Lacheneur, the son of my for- 
mer employer.” 

A terrible anxiety seized the priest’s 
heart. 

Would this man, who had already 
given an asylum to one wounded con- 
spirator, consent to receive another? 

The abbe’s voice trembled as he made 
known his petition. 

The farmer turned very pale and shook 
his head gravely, while the priest was 
speaking. When the abbe had finished : 

“Do you know, sir,” he asked, coldly, 
“that I incur a great risk by converting 
my house into a hospital for these 
rebels ?” 

The abbe dared not answer. 

“They told me,” Father Poignot con- 
tinued, “that I was a coward, because I 
would not take part in the revolt. Such 
was not my opinion. Now I choose to slid- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


235 


ter these wounded men — I shelter them. 
In my opinion, it requires quite as much 
courage as it does to go and fight.” 

u Ah! you are a brave man!” cried the 
abbe. 

“I know that very well! Bring M. 
d'Escorval. There is no one here but my 
wife and boys — no one will betray him !” 

A half hour later the baron was lying 
in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur 
was already installed. 

From the window, Abbe Midon and 
Mme. d’Escorval watched the lit le 
cortege , organized for the purpose of de- 
ceiving the Duke de Sainneuse’s spies, as 
it moved rapidly away. 

Corporal Bavois, with his head bound 
up with blood-stained linen, had taken 
the baron’s place upon the litter. 

This was one of the troubled epoch's 
in history that try men’s souls. There is 
no chance tor hypocrisy ; each man stands 
revealed in his grandeur, or in his pet- 
tiness of soul. 

Certainly much cowardice was dis- 
played during the early days of the sec- 
ond Restoration; but many deeds of 
sublime courage and devotion were per- 
formed. 

These officers who befriended Mme. 
d'Escorval and Maurice — who lent their 
aid to the abbe — knew the baron only by 
name and reputation. 

It was sufficient for them to know that 
he was the friend of their former ruler — 
the man whom they had made their idol, 
and they rejoiced with all their hearts 
when they saw M. d’Escorval reposing 
under Father Poignot’s roof in compara- 
tive security. 

After this, their task, which consisted 
in misleading the government emissaries, 
seemed to them mere child’s play. 

But all these precautions were unneces- 
sary. Public sentiment had declared it- 
self in an unmistakable manner, and it 
was evident that Lacheneur’s hopes had 
not been without some foundation. 

The police discovered nothing, not so 
much as a single detail of the escape. 
They did not even hear of the little party 
that had traveled nearly three leagues in 
the full light of day, bearing a wounded 
man upon a litter. 

Among the two thousand' peasants who 
believed that this wounded man was 
Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who 
turned informer or let drop an indiscreet 
word. 

But on approaching the frontier, which 
they knew to be strictly guarded, the fu- 
gitives became even more cautious. 

They waited until nightfall before pre- 
senting themselves at a lonely inn, where 
they hoped to procure a guide to lead 
them through the defiles of the moun- 
tains. 

Frightful news awaited ihem there. 


The inn-keeper informed them of the 
bloody massacre at Montaignac. 

With tears rolling down his cheeks, he 
related the details of the execution, which 
he had heard from an eye-witness. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew 
nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of 
M. Lacheneur's arrest. 

But he was well acquainted with Chan- 
louineau, and he was inconsolable over 
the death of that “handsome young fel- 
low, the best farmer in the country.” 

The officers, who had left the litter a 
short distance from the inn, decided that 
they could confide at least a part of their 
secret to this man. 

“We are carrying one of our wounded 
comrades,” they said to him. “Can you 
guide us across the frontier to-night?” 

The inn-keeper replied that he would 
do so very willingly, that he would 
promise to take them safely past the 
military posts; but that he would not 
think of going upon the mountain before 
the moon rose. 

By midnight the fugitives were en route ; 
by daybreak they set foot on Piedmont 
territory. 

They had dismissed their guide some 
time before. They now proceeded to 
break the litter in pieces ; and handful by 
handful they cast the wool of the mat- 
tress to the wind. 

“Our task is accomplished,” the officer 
said to Maurice. “We will now return to 
France. May God protect you! Fare- 
well !” 

It was with tears in his eyes that Mau- 
rice saw these brave men, who had just 
saved his father’s life, depart. Now he 
was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, 
who, pale and overcome with fatigue and 
emotion, trembled on his arm. 

But no — Corporal Bavois still lingered 
by his side. 

“And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, 
“what are you going to do?” 

“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. 
“I have a right to a home with you ; that 
was agreed between your father and my- 
self ! So do not hurry, the young lady 
does not seem well, and I see the village 
only a short distance away.” 


v CHAPTER LXXIX, 

Essentially a woman in grace and 
beauty, as well as in devotion and tender- 
ness, Marie-Anne was capable of a virile 
bravery. Her energy and her coolness 
during those trying days had ‘been the 
admiration and the astonishment of all 
around her. 

But human endurance has its limits. 
Always after excessive efforts comes a 
moment when the shrinking flesh fails 
the firmest will. 


236 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


When Marie-Anne tried to begin her 
journey anew, she found that her strength 
was exhansted; her swollen feet would 
no longer sustain her, her limbs sank un- 
der her, her head whirled, and an intense 
freezing coldness crept over her heart. 

Maurice and the old soldier were 
obliged to support her, almost carry her. 
Fortunately they were not far from the 
village, whose church tower they had 
discerned through the gray mists of 
morning. 

Soon the fugitives could distinguish 
the houses on the outskirts of the town. 
The corporal suddenly stopped short 
with an oath. 

“Mille tonnevves /” he exclaimed ; “and 
my uniform ! To enter the village in this 
rig would excite suspicion at once ; be- 
fore we had a chance to sit down, the 
Piedmontese gendarmes wmuld arrest us.” 

He reflected for a moment, twirling his 
moustache furiously ; then, in a tone that 
would have made a passer-by tremble, he 
said : 

“All things are fair in love and war. 
The next peasant who passes ” 

“But I have money,” interrupted Mau- 
rice, unbuckling a belt filled with gold, 
which he had put on under his clothing 
on the night of the revolt. 

“Eh! we are fortunate !” cried Bavois. 
“Give me some, and I will soon find some 
shop in the suburbs where I can purchase 
a change of clothing. 

He departed ; but it was not long be- 
fore he re-appeared, transformed by a 
peasant’s costume, which fitted him per- 
fectly. His small, thin face was almost 
hidden beneath an immense broad- 
brimmed hat. 

“Now, steady,- forward, march!” he 
said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who 
scarcely recognized him in this disguise. 

The town, which they soon reached, 
was called Saliente. They read the name 
upon a guide-post. 

The fourth house after entering the 
place was a hostelry, the Traveler’s Rest. 
They entered it, and ordered the hostess 
to take the young lady to a room and to 
assist her in disrobing. 

The order was obeyed, and Maurice 
and the corporal went into the dining- 
room and ordered something to eat. 

The desired refreshments were served, 
but the glances cast upon the guests 
were by no means friendly. It was evi- 
dent that they were regarded with suspi- 
cion. 

A large man, who was apparently the 
proprietor of the house, hovered around 
them, and at last embraced a favorable 
opportunity to ask their names. 

“My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, 
without the slightest hesitation. “I am 
travelling on business, and this man 
here is my farmer.” 


These replies seemed to reassure the 
host a little. 

“And what is your business?” he in- 
quired. 

“I came into this land of inquisitive 
people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, 
striking his belt of money. 

On hearing the jingle of the coin the 
man lifted his cap deferentially. Rais- 
ing mules was the chief industry of the 
country. This bourgeois was very 
young, but he had a well-filled purse, 
and that was enough. 

“You will excuse me,” resumed the 
host, in quite a different tone. “You 
see, we are obliged to be very careful. 
There has been some trouble in Montaig- 
nac.” 

The imminence of the peril and the 
responsibility devolving upon him, gave 
Maurice an assurance unusual to him; 
and it was in the most careless, off-hand 
manner possible that he concocted a 
quite plausible story to explain his early 
arrival on foot accompanied by a sick 
wife. He congratulated himself upon 
his address, but the old corporal was far 
from satisfied. 

“We are too near the frontier to 
bivouac here,” he grumbled. “As soon 
as the young lady is on her feet again 
we must hurry on.” 

He believed, and Maurice hoped, that 
twenty-four hours of rest would restore 
Marie-Anne. 

They were mistaken. The very 
springs of life in her existence seemed to 
have been drained dry. She did not 
appear to suffer, but she remained in a 
death-like torpor, from which nothing 
could arouse her. They spoke to her 
but she made no response. Did she hear? 
did she comprehend? It was extremely 
doubtful. 

By rare good fortune the mother of 
the proprietor proved to be a good, kind- 
hearted old woman, who would not leave 
the bed-side of Marie-Anne — of Mine. 
Dubois, as she was called at the Trav- 
eler’s Rest. 

It was not until the evening of the 
third day that they heard Marie-Anne 
utter a word. 

‘•Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, 
wretched girl !” 

It was of herself that she spoke. 

By a phenomenon not very unusual 
after a crisis in which reason has been 
temporarily obscured, it seemed to her 
that it was some one else who had been 
the victim of all the misfortunes, whose 
recollections gradually returned to her 
like the memory of a painful dream. 

What strange and terrible events had 
taken place since that August Sabbath, 
when, on leaving the church with her 
father, she heard of the arrival of the 
[Duke de Sairmeuse. 

I And that was only eight months ago. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


237 


What a difference between those days 
when she lived happy and envied in that 
beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which 
she believed herself the mistress, and at 
the present time, when she found herself 
lying in the comfortless room of a mis- 
erable country inn, attended by an old 
woman w T hom she did not know, and 
with no other protection than that of an 
old soldier — a deserter, whose life was in 
constant danger — and that of her pro- 
scribed lover. 

From this total wreck of her cherished 
ambitions, of her hopes, of her fortune, 
of her happiness, and of her future, she 
had not even saved her honor. 

But was she alone responsible? Who 
had imposed upon her the odious role 
which she had played with Maurice, 
Martial, and Chanlouineau? 

As this last name darted through her 
mind, the scene in the prison cell rose 
suddenly and vividly before her. 

Chanlouineau had given her a letter, 
saying as he did so : 

“You will read this when I am no 
more.” 

She*, might read it now that he had 
fallen beneath the bullets of the soldiery. 
But what had become of it? From the 
moment that he gave it to her until now 
she had not once thought of it. 

She raised herself in bed, and in an 
imperious voice : 

“My dress,” she said to the old nurse, 
seated beside her; ‘‘give me my dress.” 

The woman obeyed, with an eager 
hand Marie- Anne examined the pocket. 

She uttered an exclamation of joy on 
finding the letter there. 

She opened it, read it slowly twice, 
then, sinking back on her pillows, she 
bust into tears. 

Maurice anxiously approached her. 

What is the matter?” he inquired 
anxiously. 

She handed him the letter, saying: 
“Read.” * 

Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. 
His entire education had been derived 
from an old country pedagogue, whose 
school he attended for three winters, and 
who troubled himself much less about 
the progress of his students than about 
the size of the books which they carried 
to and from the school. 

This letter which was written upon the 
commonest kind of paper, was sealed 
with a huge wafer, as large as a two-sou 
piece, which he had purchased from a 
grocer in Sairmeuse. 

The chirography was labored, heavy 
and trembling ; it betrayed the stiff hand 
of a man more accustomed to guiding 
the plow than the pen. 


my 


But if the writing was that of a 
vulgar peasant, the thoughts it expressed 
were worthy of the noblest; the proudest 
in the land. 

This was the letter which Chanloui- 
neau had written, probably on the eve of 
the insurrection. 

“Marie- Anne — The outbreak is at 
hand. Whether it succeeds, or whether 
it fails, I shall die. That was decided on 
the day when I learned that you could 
marry none other than Maurice d’Escor- 
val. 

“But the conspiracy will not succeed; 
and I understand your father well 
enough to know that he will not survive 
its defeat. And if Maurice and your 
brother should both be killed, what 
would become of you? Oh, my God, 
would you not be reduced to beggary ? 

“The thought has haunted me contin- 
ually. I have reflected, and this is my 
last will : ’ 

“I give and bequeath to you all 
property, all that I possess : 

“My house, the Borderie, with the gar- 
dens and vineyards pertaining thereto, 
the woodland and the pastures of Berarde, 
and five lots of land at Valrollier. 

“You w T ill find an inventory of this 
property, and of my other possessions 
which I devise to you, deposited with 
the lawyer at Sairmeuse. 

“You can accept this bequest without 
fear ; for, having no parents, my control 
over my property is absolute. 

“If you do not wish to remain in 
France, this property will sell for at 
least forty thousand francs. 

“But it would, it seems to me, be bet- 
ter for you to remain in your own coun- 
try. The house on the Borderie is 
fortable and convenient, since I 
had it divided into three rooms and 
oughly repaired. 

“Up-stairs is a room that has 
fitted up by the best upholsterer in 
taignac. I intended it for you. Beneath 
the hearth-stone in this room you will 
find a box containing three hundred and 
twenty-seven louis d’or and one hundred 
and forty-six livres.” 

“If you refuse this gift, it will be be- 
cause you scorn me even after I am dead. 
Accept it, if not for your own sake, for 
the sake of — I dare not write it ; but you 
will understand my meaning only too 
well. 

“If Maurice is not killed, and I shall 
try my best to stand between him and 
danger, he will marry you. Then you 
will, perhaps, be obliged to ask his con- 
sent in order to accept my gift. I hope 
that he will not refuse it. One is not 


com- 

have 

thor- 

been 

Mon- 


The lines zig-zagged towards the top jealous of the dead ! 


or towards the bottom of the page, and 
faults of orthography 
apparent. 


Besides, he knows well that you have 
were everywhere! scarcely vouchsafed a glance to the poor 
I peasant who has loved you so much. 


233 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“Do not be offended at anything I have 
said, I am in such agony that I cannot 
weigh my words. 

“Adieu, adieu, Marie-Anne. 

“Chanlouineau.” 

Maurice also read twice, before hand- 
ing it back, this letter whose every word 
palpitated with sublime passion. 

He was silent for a moment, then, in a 
husky voice, he said : 

“You cannot refuse; it would be 
wrong.” 

His emotion was so great that he could 
not conceal it, and he left the room. 

He was overwhelmed by the grandeur 
of soul exhibited by this peasant, who, 
after saving the life of his successful 
rival at the Croix-d’Arcy, had wrested 
Baron d’Escorval from the hands of his 
executioners, and who had never allowed 
a complaint nor a reproach to escape his 
lips, and whose protection over the wo- 
man he adored extended even from be- 
yond the grave. 

In comparison with this obscure hero, 
Maurice felt himself insignificant, medi- 
ocre, unworthy. 

Good God! what if this comparison 
should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as 
well? How could he compete with the 
memory of such nobility of soul and 
heroic self-sacrifice? 

Chanlouineau was mistaken; one may, 
perhaps, be jealous of the dead! 

But Maurice took good care to conceal 
this poignant anxiety and these sorrow- 
ful thoughts, and during the days that 
followed, he presented himself in Marie- 
Anne’s room with a calm, even cheerful 
face. 

For she, unfortunately, was not re- 
stored to health. She had recovered the 
full possession of her mental faculties, 
but her strength had not yet returned. 
She was still unable to sit up ; and Mau- 
rice was forced to relinquish all thought 
of quitting Saliente, though he felt the 
earth burn beneath his feet. 

This persistent weakness began to 
astonish the old nurse. Her faith in 
herbs, gathered by the light of the moon, 
was considerably shaken. 

Honest Bavois was the first to suggest 
the idea of consulting a physician whom 
he had found in this land of savages. 

Yes; he had found a really skillful 
physician in the neighborhood, a man of 
superior ability. Attached at one time 
to the beautiful court of Prince Eugene, 
he had been obliged to flee from Milan, 
and had taken refuge in this secluded 
spot. 

This ' physician was summoned, and 
promptly made his appearance. He was 
one of those men whose age it is im- 
possible to determine. His past, what- 
ever it might have been, had wrought 


deep furrows on his brow, and his glanco 
was as keen and piercing as his lancet. 

After visiting the sick-room, he drew 
Maurice aside. 

“Is this young lady really your wife, 
Monsieur— Dubois ?” 

He hesitated so strangely over this 
name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his face 
crimson to the roots of his hair. 

“I do not understand your question,” 
he retorted, angrily. 

“I beg your pardon, of course, but you 
seem very young for a married man, and 
your hands are too soft to belong to a 
farmer. And when I spoke to this young 
lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. 
The man who accompanies you has terri- 
ble moustaches for a farmer. Besides, 
you must remember that there have been 
troubles across the frontier at Montaig- 
nac.” 

From crimson Maurice had turned 
white. He felt that he was discovered — 
that he was in this man’s powder. 

What should he do? 

What good would denial do? 

He reflected that confession is some- 
times the height of prudence, and# that 
extreme confidence often meets with 
sympathy and protection ; so, in a voice 
trembling with anxiety, he said : 

“You are not mistaken, monsieur. My 
friend and myself both are fugitives, un- 
doubtedly condemned to death in France 
at this moment.” 

And without giving the doctor time to 
respond, he narrated the terrible events 
that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the 
history of his unfortunate love affair. 

He omitted nothing. He neither con- 
cealed his own name nor that of Marie- 
Anne. 

When his recital was completed, the 
physician pressed his hand. 

“It is just as I supposed,” said he. “Be- 
lieve me, Monsieur — Dubois, you must 
not tarry here. What I have discovered 
others will discover. And above all, do 
not warn the hotel-keeper of your depart- 
ure. He has not been deceived by your 
explanation. Self-interest alone has kept 
his mouth closed. He has seen your 
money, and so long as you spend it at 
his house he will hold his tongue ; but if 
he discovers that you are going away, he 
will probably betray you.” 

“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us 
to leave this place?” 

“In two days the young lady will be 
on her feet again,” interrupted the phy- 
sician. “Ana take my advice. At the 
next village, stop and give your name to 
Mile. Lacheneur.” 

“Ah! sir.” Maurice exclaimed; “have 
you considered the advice you offer me? 
How can I, a proscribed man — a man 
condemned to death perhaps — how can I 
obtain the necessary papers?” 

The physician shook his head. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


239 


“Excuse me, you are no longer in 
France, Monsieur d'Escorval, you are in 
Piedmont.” 

‘•Another difficulty!” 

“No, because in this country, people 
marry, or at least they can marry, with- 
out all the formalities that cause you so 
much anxiety.” 

“Is it possible?” Maurice exclaimed. 

“Yes, if you can find a priest who will 
consent to your union, inscribe your 
name upon his parish register and give 
you a certificate, you will be so indissol- 
ubly united, Mile. Lacheneur and you, 
that the court of Rome would never 
grant you a divorce.” 

To suspect the truth of these affirma- 
tions was difficult, and yet Maurice 
doubted still. 

“So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “in 
case I was able to find a priest ” 

The physician was silent. One might 
have supposed he was blaming himself 
for meddling with matters that did not 
concern him. 

Then, almost brusquely, he said : 

“Listen to me attentively, Monsieur 
d'Escorval. I am about to take my 
leave, but before I go, I shall take occa- 
sion to recommend a good deal of exer- 
cise for the sick lady — I will do this 
before your host. Consequently, day 
after to-morrow, Wednesday, you will 
hire mules, and you, Mile. Lacheneur 
and your old friend, the soldier, will 
leave the hotel as if going on a pleasure 
excursion. You will push on to Vigano, 
three leagues from here, where I live. 
I will take you to a priest, one of my 
friends ; and he, upon my recommenda- 
tion, will perform the marriage cere- 
mony. Now reflect, shall I expect you 
on Wednesday?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, monsieur. How can I 
ever thank you?” 

“By not thanking me at all. See, here 
is the inn-keeper; you are M. Dubois, 
again.” . . 

Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He 
understood the irregularity of such a 
marriage, but he knew it would, reassure 
Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor 
giri ! she was suffering an agony of 
remorse. It was that which was killing 
her. 

He did not speak to her on the subject, 
however, fearing something might occur 
to interfere with the project. 

But the old physician had not given his 
•word lightly, and everything took place 
as he had promised. 

The priest at Vigano blessed the mar- 
riage of Maurice d’Escorval and of Marie- 
Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing 
their names upon the .church register, he 
gave them a certificate, upon which the 
physician and Corporal Bavois figured as 
witnesses. 

That same evening the mules were 


sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives 
resumed their journey. 

Abbe Midori had counselled them to 
reach Turin as quickly as possible. 

“It is a large city,” he said; “you will 
be lost in the crowd. I have more than 
one friend there, Avhose name and address 
are upon this paper. Go to them, and in 
that way I will try to send you news of 
your father.” 

So it was towards Turin that Maurice, 
Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed 
their steps. 

But their progress was very slow, for 
they were obliged to avoid frequented 
roads, and renounce the ordinary modes 
of transportation. 

The fatigue of travel, instead of exhaust- 
ing Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her. 
After five or six days the color came back 
to her cheek and her strength returned. 

“Fate seems to have relaxed her rigor,” 
said Maurice, one day. “Who knows 
what compensations the future may have 
in store for us !” 

No, fate had not taken pity upon them ; 
it was only a short respite granted by 
destiny. One lovely April morning the 
fugitives stopped for breakfast at an inn 
on the outskirts of a large city. 

Maurice having finished his repast was 
just leaving the table to settle with the 
hostess, when a despairing cry arrested 
him. 

Marie-Anne, deadly pale, and with eyes 
staring wildly at a paper which she held 
in her hand, excla med in frenzied tones: 

“Here! Maurice! Look!” 

It was a French journal about a fort- 
night old, which had fftobably been left 
there by some traveler. 

Maurice seized it and read : 

“Yesterday, Lacheneur, the leader of 
the revolt in Montaignac, was executed. 
The miserable mischief-maker exhibited 
upon the scaffold the audacity for which 
he has always been famous.” 

“My father has been put to death!” 
cried Marie-Anne, “and I — his daughter 
— was not there to receive h ? s last fare- 
well !” 

She rose, and in an imperious voice : 

“I will go no farther,” she said; “we 
must turn back now without losing an 
instant. I Avish to return to France.” 

To return to France was to expose 
themselves to frightful peril. What 
good would it do? Was not the mis- 
fortune irreparable? 

So Corporal Bavois suggested, very 
timidly. The old soldier trembled at the 
thought that they might suspect him of 
being afraid. 

But Maurice would not listen. 

He shuddered. It seemed to him that 
Baron d'Escorval must have been discov- 
ered and arrested at the same time that 
Lacheneur was captured. 


240 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Yes, let us start at once on our re- 
turn !” he exclaimed. 

They immediately procured a carriage 
to convey them to the frontier. One im- 
portant question, however, remained to 
be decided. Should Maurice and Marie- 
Anne make their marriage public? She 
wished to do so, but Maurice entreatec 
her, with tears in his eyes, to conceal it. 

“Our marriage certificate will not 
silence the evil disposed.” said he. “Let 
us keep our secret for the present. We 
shall doubtless remain in France only a 
few days.” 

Unfortunately, Marie- Anne yielded. 

“Since you wish it,” said she, “I will 
obey you. No one shall know it.” 

The next day, which was the seven- 
teenth of April, the fugitives at nightfall 
reached Father Poignot’s house. 

Maurice and Corporal Bavois were 
disguised as peasants. . 

The old soldier had made one sacrifice 
that drew tears from his eyes; he had 
shaved off his moustache. 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

When Abbe Midon and Martial de Sair- 
meuse held their conference, to discuss 
and to decide upon the arrangements for 
the Baron d’Escorval's escape, a diffi- 
culty presented itself which threatened 
to break off the negotiation. 

“Return my letter,” said Martial, “and 
I will save the baron.” 

“Save the baron,” replied the abbe, 
and your letter shall be returned.” 

But Martial’s was one of those natures 
which become exasperated by the least 
shadow of suspicion. 

The idea that any one should suppose 
him influenced by threats, when in real- 
ity, he had yielded only to Marie-Anne’s 
tears, angered him beyond endurance. 

“These are my last words, monsieur,” 
he said, emphatically. “Restore to me, 
now, this instant, the letter which was 
obtained from me by Chanlouineau’s ruse, 
and I swear to you, by the honor of my 
name, that all which it is possible for 
any human being to do to save the baron, 
I will do. If you distrust my word, 
good-evening.” 

The situation was desperate, the dan- 
ger imminent, the time limited ; Martial's 
tone betrayed an inflexible determina- 
tion. 

The abbe could not hesitate. He drew 
the letter from his pocket and handing it 
to Martial : 

“Here it is, monsieur,” he said, sol- 
emnly, “remember that you have 
pledged the honor of your name.” 

•T will remember it. Monsieur le Cure. 
Go and obtain the ropes.” 

The abbe's sorrow and amazement were 


intense, when, after the baron's terrible 
fall, Maurice announced that the cord 
had been cut. And yet he could not 
make up his mind that Martial was 
guilty of the execrable act. It betraj r ed 
a depth of duplicity and hypocrisy 
which is rarely found in men under 
twenty-five years of age. But no one 
suspected his secret thoughts. It was 
with the most unalterable sang-froid that 
he dressed the baron’s wounds and made 
arrangements for the flight. Not until 
he saw M. d'Eseorval installed in Poig- 
not's house did he breathe freely. 

The fact that the baron had been able 
to endure the journey, proved that in this 
poor maimed body remained a power of 
vitality for which the priest had not 
dared to hope. 

Some way must now be discovered to 
procure the surgical instruments and the 
remedies which the condition of the 
wounded man demanded. 

But where and how could he procure 
them? 

The police kept a close watch over the 
physicians and druggists in Montaignac, 
in the hope of discovering the wounded 
conspirators through them. 

But the cure, who had been for ten 
years physician and surgeon for the poor 
of his parish, had an almost complete set 
of surgical instruments and a well-filled 
medicine chest. 

“This evening,” said he, “I will obtain 
what is needful.” 

When night came, he put on a long, 
blue blouse, shaded his face by an im- 
mense slouch hat, and directed his stepk 
toward Sairmeuse. 

Not a light was visible through the 
windows of the presbytery, Bibiane, the 
old housekeeper, must have gone out to 
gossip with some of the neighbors. 

The priest effected an entrance into the 
louse, which had once been his, by forc- 
ing the lock of the door opening on the 
garden; he found the requisite articles, 
and retired without having been dis- 
covered. 

That night the abbe hazarded a cruel 
but indispensable operation. His heart 
trembled, but not the hand that held the 
inif e, although he had never before at- 
tempted so difficult a task. 

“It is not upon my weak powers that I 
rely ; I have placed my trust in One who 
is on High.” 

His faith was rewarded. Three days 
later the wounded man, after quite a com- 
fortable night, seemed to regain con- 
sciousness. 

His first glance was for his devoted 
wife, who was seated by his bedside; his 
first word was for his son. 

“Maurice?” he asked. 

“Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He 
must be on the way to Turin.” 

M. d'Eseorval V lips moved as if he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


241 


were murmuring a prayer ; then, in a fee- 
ble voice : 

“We owe you a debt of gratitude which 
we can never pay,'’ he murmured, “for 1 
think I sh 11 pull through.” 

He did “pull through,” but not without 
terrible suffering, *not without difficulties 
that made those around him tremble with 
anxiety. Jean Lacheneur, more fortun- 
ate, was on his feet by the end of the 
week. 

Forty days had passed, when one eve- 
ning — it was the seventeenth of April 
— while the abbe was reading a news- 
paper to the baron, the door gently 
opened and one of the Poignot boys put 
in his head, then quickly withdrew it. 

The priest finished the paragraph, laid 
down the paper, and quietly went out. 

“What is it?” he inquired of the young 
man. 

“Ah! monsieur, M. Maurice, Mile. 
Lacheneur and the old corporal have just^ 
arrived ; they wish to come up.” 

In three bounds the abbe descended the 
narrow staircase. 

•‘Unfortunate creatures!” he ex- 
claimed, addressing the three imprudent 
travelers, “what has induced you to re- 
turn here?” 

Then turning to Maurice : 

“Is it not enough that for you, and 
through you, your father has nearly died? 
Are you afraid he will not be recaptured, 
that you return here to set the enemies 
upon his track? Depart !” 

The poor boy, quite overwhelmed, fal- 
tered his excuse. Uncertainty seemed to 
him worse than death; he had heard of 
M. Lacheneurs execution; he had not 
reflected, he would go at once ; he asked 
only to see his father and to embrace his 
mother. 

The priest was inflexible. 

The slightest emotion might kill your 
father,” he declared ; “and to tell your 
mother of your return, and of the dangers 
to which vou have foolishly exposed 
yourself, would cause her untold tor- 
tures. Go at once. Cross the frontier 
again this very night.” 

Jean Lacheneur, who had witnessed 
this scene, now approached. 

“It is time for me to depart,” said he, 
and I entreat you to care for my sister, 
the place for her is here, not upon the 
highways.” 

The abbe deliberated for a moment, 
then he said brusquely : 

“So be it ; but go at once ; your name 
is not upon the proscribed list. You will 
not be pursued.” 

Thus, suddenly separated from his 
wife, Maurice wished to confer with her, 
to give her some parting advice ; but the 
abbe did not al ow him an opportunity. 

-Go. go at once,” he insisted. “Fare- 
well !” 


The good abbe was too hasty. 

Just when Maurice stood sorely in need 
of wise counsel, he was thus delivered 
over to the influence of Jean Lacheneur’s 
furious hatred. As soon as they were 
outside : 

“This.” exclaimed Jean, “is the work 
of the Sairmeuse and the Marquis de 
Courtornieu ! I do not even know where 
they have thrown the body of my mur- 
dered parent ; you cannot even embrace 
the father who has been traitorously 
assassinated by them !” 

He laughed a harsh, discordant, ter- 
rible laugh, and continued. 

“And yet, if we ascended that hill, we 
could see the Chateau de Sairmeuse in 
the distance, brightly illuminated. They 
are celebrating the marriage of Martial 
de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtor- 
nieu. We are homeless wanderers with- 
out friends, and without a shelter for our 
heads : they are feasting and making 
merry.” 

Less than this would have sufficed to 
rekindle the wrath of Maurice. He for- 
got everything in saying to himself that 
to disturb this fete by his appearance 
would be a vengeance worthy of him. 

“I will go and challenge Martial now, 
on the instant, in the presence of the 
revellers,” he exclaimed. 

But Jean interrupted him. 

“No, not that! They are cowards; 
they would arrest you. Write; I will be 
the bearer of the letter.” 

Corporal Bavois heard them; but he 
did not oppose their folly. He thought 
it all perfectly natural, under the cir- 
cumstances, and esteemed them the more 
for their rashness. 

Forgetful of prudence they entered the 
first shop, and the challenge was written 
and confided to Jean Lacheneur. 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 

To disturb the merry-making at the 
Chateau de Sairmeuse; to change the joy 
of the bridal-day into sadness ; to cast a 
gloom over the nuptials of Martial and 
Mile. Blanche de Courtornieu. 

This, in truth, was all that Jean Lache- 
n> ur hoped to do. 

As for believing that Martial, trium- 
phant and happy, would accept the chal- 
lenge of Maurice, a miserable outlaw, he 
did not believe it. 

While awaiting Martial in the vestibule 
of the chateau, he armed himself against 
the scorn and sneers which he would 
probably receive from this haughty no- 
bleman whom he had come to insult. 

But Martial’s kindly greeting had dis- 
concerted him a little. 

But he was reassured when he saw the 


16 


242 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


terrible effect produced upon the marquis 
by the insulting letter. 

“We have cut him to the quick,” he 
thought. 

When Martial seized him by the arm 
and led him up-stairs, he made no re- 
sistance. 

While they traversed the brightly 
lighted drawing-rooms and passed 
through the crowd of astonished guests, 
Jean thought neither of his heavy shoes 
nor of his peasant dress. 

Breathless with anxiety, he wondered 
what was to come. 

He soon knew. 

Leaning against the gilded door-post, 
he witnessed the terrible scene in the 
little salon. 

He saw Martial de Sairmeuse, frantic 
with passion, cast into the face of his 
father-in-law Maurice d’Escorval’s letter. 

One might have supposed that all this 
did not affect him in the least, he stood 
so cold and unmoved, with compressed 
lips and downcast eyes ; but appearances 
were deceitful. His heart throbbed with 
wild exultation ; and if he cast down his 
eyes, it was only to conceal the joy that 
sparkled there. 

He had not hoped for so prompt and so 
terrible a revenge. 

Nor was this all. 

After brutalty repulsing Blanche, his 
newly wedded wife, who attempted to 
detain him, Martial again seized Jean 
Lacheneur's arm. 

“Now,” said he, “follow me!” 

Jean followed him still without a 
word. 

They again crossed the grand hall, but 
instead of going to the vestibule Martial 
took a candle that was burning upon a 
side table, and opened a little door lead- 
ing to the private staircase. 

“Where are you taking me?” inquired 
Jean Lacheneur. 

Martial, who had already ascended two 
or three steps, turned. 

“Are you afraid?” he asked. 

The other shrugged his shoulders, and 
coldly replied : 

“If you put it in that way, let us go 
on.” 

They entered the room which Martial 
had occupied since taking possession of 
the chateau. It was the same room that' 
had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur ; 
and nothing had been changed. He rec- 
ognized the brightly flowered curtains, 
the figures on the carpet, and even an 
old arm-chair where he had read many a 
novel in secret. 

Martial hastened to a small writing- 
desk, and took from it a paper which he 
slipped into his pocket. 

“Now,” said he, “let us go. We must 
avoid another scene. My father and — 
my wife will be seeking me. I will 
explain when we are outside.” 


They hastily descended the staircase, 
passed through the gardens, and soon 
reached the long avenue. 

Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused. 

“To come so far for a simple yes or 
no is, I think unnecessary,” said he. 
“Have you decided? What answer am I 
to give Maurice d’Escorval?” 

“Nothing! You will take me to him. 
I must see him and speak with him in 
order to justify mj r self. Let us pro- 
ceed!” 

But Jean Lacheneur did not move. 

- “What you ask is impossible!” he re- 
plied. 

“Why?” 

“Because Maurice is pursued. If he is 
captured, he will be tried and undoubted- 
ly condemned to death. He is now in a 
safe retreat, and I have no right to dis- 
close it. 

Maurice's safe retreat, was in fact, 
only a neighboring wood, where in com- 
pany with the corporal, he was awaiting 
Jean’s return. 

But Jean could not resist the tempta- 
tion to make this response, which was 
far more insulting than if he had simply 
said : 

“We fear informers !” 

Strange as it may appear to one who 
knew Martial’s proud and violent nature, 
he did not resent the insult. 

“So you distrust me!” he said, sadly. 

Jean Lacheneur was silent — another 
insult. 

“But,” insisted Martial, “after what 
you have just seen and heard you can no 
longer suspect me of having cut the 
ropes which I carried to the baron.” 

“No! I am convinced that you are 
innocent of that atrocious act.” 

“You saw how I punished the man 
who dared to compromise the honor of 
the name of Sairmeuse. And this man 
is the father of the young girl whom I 
wedded to-day.” 

“I have seen all this; but I must still 
reply : ‘Impossible.’ ” 

Jean was amazed at the patience, we 
should rather say, the humble resigna- 
tion displayed by Martial de Sairmeuse. 

Instead of rebelling against this mani- 
fest injustice. Martial drew from his 
pocket the paper which he had just taken 
from his desk, and handing it to Jean : 

“Those who have brought upon me 
the shame of having my word doubted 
shall be punished for it,” he said grimly. 
“You do not believe in my sincerity, 
Jean. Here is a proof, which I expect 
you to give to Maurice, and which can- 
not fail to convince even you.” 

“What is this proof?” 

“The letter written by my hand, in 
exchange for which my lather assisted 
in the baron’s escape. An inexplicable 
presentiment prevented me from burning 
this compromising letter. To-day, I 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


213 


rejoice that such was the case. Take it, 
and use it as you will.” 

Any one save Jean Lacheneur would 
have been touched by the generosity of 
soul. But Jean was implacable. His 
was a nature which nothing can disarm, 
which nothing can mollify ; hatred in his 
heart was a passion which, instead of 
growing weaker with time, increased 
and became more terrible. 

He would have sacrificed anything at 
that moment for the ineffable joy of 
seeing this proud and detested marquis 
at his feet. 

‘‘Very well, I will give it to Maurice,” 
he responded, coldly. 

u It should be a bond of alliance, it 
seems to me,” said Martial, gently. 

Jean Lacheneur made a gesture terri- 
ble in its irony and menace. 

“A bond of alliance!” he exclaimed. 
You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! 
Have you forgotten all the blood that 
flows between us? You did not cut the 
ropes ; but who condemned the innocent 
Baron d’Escorval to death? Was it not 
the Duke de Sairmeuse? An alliance! 
You have forgotten that you and yours 
sent my father *to the scaffold ! How 
have you rewarded the man whose heroic 
honesty gave you back a fortune? By 
murdering him, and by ruining the rep- 
utation of his daughter.” 

“I offered my name and my fortune to 
your sister.” 

U I would have killed her with my own 
hand had she accepted your offer. Let 
this prove to you that I do not forget. 
If anj r great disgrace ever tarnishes" the 
proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean 
Lacheneur. My hand will be in it.” 

He was so frantic with passion that he 
forgot his usual caution. By a violent 
effort he recovered his self-possession, 
and in calmer tones he added : 

“And if you are so desirous of seeing 
Maurice, be' at the Reche to-morrow at 
mid-day. He will be there.” 

Having said this, he turned abruptly 
aside, sprang over the fence skirting the 
avenue, and disappeared in the darkness. 

“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost sup- 
plicating tones; “Jean, come back — 
listen to me !” 

No response. 

A sort of bewilderment had seized the 
voung marquis, and he stood motionless 
and dazed in the middle of the road. 

A horse and rider on their way to 
Montaignac, that nearly ran over him, 
aroused him from his stupor and the 
consciousness of his acts, which he had 
lost while reading the letter from 
Maurice, came back to him. 

Now he could judge of his conduct 
calmly. 

Was it indeed he, Martial, the phleg- 
matic skeptic, the man who boasted of 
his indifference and his insensibility, 


who had thus forgotten all self-control? 

Alas, yes. And when Blanche de Cour- 
tornieu, now and henceforth the Mar- 
quise de Sairmeuse, accused Marie-Anne 
of being the cause of his frenzy, she had 
not been entirely wrong. 

Martial, who regarded the opinion of 
the entire world with disdain, was ren- 
dered frantic by the thought that Marie- 
Anne despised him, and considered him a 
traitor and a coward. 

It was for her sake, that in his out- 
burst of rage, he resolved upon such a 
startling justification. And if he besought 
Jean to lead him to Maurice d’Escorval, 
it was because he hoped to find Marie- 
Anne not far off, and to say to her : 

“Appearances were against me, but I 
am innocent; and I have proved it by 
unmasking the real culprit.” 

It was to Marie-Anne that he wished 
this famous letter to be given, thinking 
that she, at least, could not fail to be sur- 
prised at his generosity. 

His expectations had been disappoinl- 
ed ; and now he realized what a terrible 
scandal he had created. 

“It will be the devil to arrange!” he 
explained; “but nonsense! it will be 
forgotten in a month. The best way will 
be to face those gossips at once : I will 
return immediately.” 

He said: “I will return,” in the most 
deliberate manner ; but in proportion as 
he neared the chateau, his courage failed 
him. 

The guests must have departed ere 
this, and Martial concluded that he would 
probably find himself alone with his 
young wife, his father, and the Marquis 
de Courtornieu. What reproaches, tears, 
anger and threats he would be obliged to 
encounter. 

“No,” he muttered. “I am not such a 
fool! Let them have a night to calm 
themselves. I will not appear until to- 
morrow.” 

But wiiere should he pass the night? 
He was in evening dress and bare-headed ; 
he began to feel cold. The house be- 
longing to the duke in Montaignac w r ould 
afford him a refuge. 

“I shall find a bed, some servants, a 
fire, and a change of clothing there — and 
to-morrow, a horse to return.” 

It was quite a distance to walk ; but 
in his present mood this did not displease 
him. 

The servant who came to open the door 
w r hen he rapped, w'as speechless with 
astonishment on recognizing him. 

“You, monsieur!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, it is I. Light a good fire in the 
draw T ing-room for me, and bring me a 
change of clothing.” 

The valet obeyed, and soon Martial 
found himself alone, stretched upon a 
sofa before the cheerful blaze. 

It would be a good thing to sleep and 


244 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


lorg'et my troubles,” he said to himself. 

He tried; but it was not until earty 
morning that he fell into a feverish slum- 
ber. 

He awoke about nine o’clock, ordered 
breakfast, concluded to return to Sair- 
meuse, and he was eating with a good 
appetite, when suddenly : 

“Have a horse saddled instantly,” he 
exclaimed. 

He had just remembered the rondez- 
vous with Maurice. Why should he not 
go there? 

He set out at once, and thanks to a 
spirited horse, he reached the Reche at 
half-past eleven o'clock. 

The others had not yet arrived ; he fas- 
tened his horse to a tree near by, and 
leisurely climbed to the summit of the 
hill. 

This spot had been the site of Lache- 
neur's house. The four walls remained 
standing, blackened by Are. 

Martial was contemplating the ruins, 
not without deep emotion, when he heard 
a sharp crackling in the underbrush. 

He turned ; Maurice, Jean, and Corpo- 
ral Bavois were approaching. 

The old soldier carried under his arm 
a long and narrow package, enveloped in 
a piece of green serge. It contained the 
swords which Jean Lacheneur had gone 
to Montaignac during the night to pro- 
cure from a retired officer. 

“We are sorry to have kept you wait- 
ing,” began Maurice, “but you will ob- 
serve that it is not yet mid-day. Since 
we scarcely expected to see you ” 

“I was too anxious to justify myself 
not to be here early,” interrupted Mar- 
tial. 

Maurice shrugged his shoulders dis- 
dainfully. 

“It is not a question of self-justifica- 
tion, but of fighting,” he said, in a tone 
rude even to insolence. 

Insulting as were the words and the 
gesture that accompanied them, Martial 
never so much as winced. 

“Sorrow has rendered you unjust,” said 
he, gently, “or M. Lacheneur here has 
told you nothing.” 

“Jean has told me all.” 

“Well, then?” 

Martial’s coolness drove Maurice 
frantic. 

“Well,” he replied, with extreme vio- 
lence, “my hatred is unabated even if 
my scorn is diminished. You have owed 
me an opportunity to avenge myself, 
monsieur, ever since the day we met on 
the square at Sairmeuse in the presence 
of Mile. Lacheneur. You said to me on 
that occasion: ‘We shall meet again.’ 
Here we stand now face to face. What in- 
sults must I heap upon you to decide you 
to fight?” 

A flood of crimson dyed Martial’s face. 
He seized one of the swords which Bavois 


offered him, ana assumed an attitude of 
defence. 

“You will have it so,” said he in a 
husky voice. “The thought of Marie- 
Anne can no longer save you.” 

But the blades had scarcely crossed 
before a cry from Jean and from Corpo- 
ral Bavois arrested the combat. 

“The soldiers!” they exclaimed; “let 
us fly!” 

A dozen soldiers were indeed approach- 
ing at the top of their speed. 

“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed 
Maurice. “The coward came, but the 
gendarmes accompanied him.” 

He bounded back, and breaking his 
sword over his knee, he hurled the frag- 
ments in Martial's face, saying : 

“Here, miserable wretch !” 

“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal 
Bavois, “traitor! coward!” 

And, they fled, leaving Martial thun- 
derstruck. 

He struggled hard to regain his com- 
posure. The soldiers were very near; 
he ran to meet them, and addressing the 
officer in command, he said imperiously : 

“Do you know who I am?” 

‘Yes,” replied the sergeant, respect- 
fully, “you are the son of the Duke de 
Sairmeuse.” 

“Very well! I forbid you to follow 
those men.” 

The sergeant hesitated at first ; then, 
in a decided tone, he replied : 

“I cannot obey you, sir. I have my 
orders.” 

And addressing his men : 

“Forward!” he exclaimed. He was 
about to set the example, when Martial 
seized him by the arm. 

“At least you will not refuse to tell me 
who sent you here ?” 

“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, 
in obedience to orders from the grand 
prevot , M. de Courtornieu. He sent the 
order last night. We have been hidden 
in that grove since daybreak. But release 
me — tonnerre ! would you have my ex- 
pedition fail entirely ?” 

He hurried away, and Martial, stag- 
gering like a drunken man, descended 
the slope, and remounted his horse. 

But he did not repair to the Chateau 
De Sairmeuse; he returned to Montaig- 
nac, and passed the remainder of the 
afternoon in the solitude of his own 
room. 

That evening he sent two letters to 
Sairmeuse. One to his father, the other 
to h s wife. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

Terrible as Martial imagined the 
scandal to be which he had created, his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


245 


conception of it by no means equalled 
the reality. 

Had a thunderbolt burst beneath that 
roof, the gue ts at Sairmeu e could not 
have betn more amazed and horrified. 

A shudder pas-ed over t'ie assembly 
when Martial, terrible in his passion, 
flung the crumbled letter full in the face 
of the Marquis de Courtornieu. 

And when the marquis sank half-faint- 
ing into an arm-chair, some young ladies 
of extreme sensibility could not repress 
a cry of fear. 

For twenty seconds after Martial dis- 
appeared with JeanLacheneur, the guests 
stood as motionless as statues, pale, mute, 
stupefied. 

It was Blanche who broke the spell. 

While the Marquis de Courtornieu was 
panting for breath — while the Duke de 
Sairmeuse was trembling and speechless 
with suppressed anger, the young mar- 
quise made an heroic attempt to come to 
the rescue. 

With her hand still aching from Mar- 
tial’s brutal clasp, a heart swelling with 
rage and hatred, and a face whiter than 
her bridal veil, she had strength to re- 
strain her tears and to compel her lips to 
smile. 

“Really this is placing too much im- 
portance on a trilling misunderstanding 
which will be explained to-morrow.” she 
said, almost gayly, to those nearest her. 

And stepping into the middle of the 
hall she made a sign to the musicians to 
play a coun ry-dance. 

But when the first measures floated 
through the air, the company, as if by 
unanimous consent, hastened towards 
the door. 

One might have supposed the chateau 
on fire— the guests did not withdraw, they 
actually fled. 

An hour before, the Marquis de Cour- 
tornieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse had 
been overwhelmed with the most ob- 
sequious homage and a ulation. 

But now there was not one in that as 
sembly daring enough to take them open 
ly by the hand. 

Just when they believed themselves 
all-powerful they were rudely precipi 
tated from their lordly eminence. Dis- 
grace and perhaps punishment were to be 
their portion. 

'Heroic to the last, the bride endeav- 
ored to stay the tide of retreating guests. 

Stationing herself near the door, with 
her most bewitching smile upon her lips. 
Madame Blanche spared neither flattering- 
words nor entreaties in her efforts to le- 
assure the deserters. 

Vain attempt! Useless sacrifice! 
Many ladies were not sorry of an oppor- 
tunity to repay the young Marquise de 
Sairmeuse for the disdain and th * caustic 
words of Blanche de Courtornieu. 

Soon all the guests, who had so eagerly 


presented themselves that morning, had 
disappeared, a d there remained only one 
old gentleman who, on account of It's 
gout, had deemed it prudent not to min- 
gle with the crowd. 

He bowed in passing before the young 
marquise, and blushing at this insult to 
a woman, he departed as the others had 
done. 

Blanche was now alone. There was 
no longer any necessity f r constraint. 
There were no more curious witnesses to 
enjoy her sufierings and to make com- 
ment upon them. With a furious gesture 
she tore her bridal veil and the wreath of 
orange flowers from her head, and tram- 
pled them under foot. 

A servant was passing through the 
hall ; she stopped him. 

“Extinguish the lights everywhere!” 
she ordered, with an angry stamp of her 
foot as if she had been in her own father's 
house, and not at Sairmeuse. 

He obeyed her, and then, with flashing 
eyes and dishevelled hair, she hastened 
to the little salon in which the denoue- 
ment had taken place. 

A crowd of servants surrounded the 
marquis, who was lying like one stricken 
w.th apoplexy. 

“All the blood in his body has flown to 
his head,” remarked the duke, with a 
shrug of his shoulders. 

For the duke was furious with his for- 
mer friends. 

He scarcely knew with whom he was 
most angry, Martial or the Marquis de 
Courtornieu. 

Martial, by this public confessi n, had 
certainly imperilled, if he had not ruined, 
their politi al future. 

But, on the other hand, had not the 
Marquis de Courtornieu represented a 
Sairmeuse as being guilty of an act of 
treason revolting to any honorable heart? 

Buried in a large arm-chair, he sat 
watching, with contracted brows, the 
movements of the servants, when his 
daughter-in-law entered the room. 

She paused before him, and with arms 
folded tightly across her breast, she said, 
angrily : 

“Why did you remain here while I was 
left alone to endure such humiliation. 
Ah ! had I been a man ! All our guests 
have fled, monsieur — all!” 

M. de Sairmeuse sprang up. 

“Ah, well ! what if they have. Let them 
go to the devil !” 

Of the guests that had just left his 
house there was not one whom the duke 
really regretted — not one whom he re- 
garded as an equal. In giving a marriage 
feast for his son, he had bidden all tne 
gentry of the neighborhood. They had 
come — very well ! They had fled — bon 
voyage ! 

If the duke cared at all for their deser- 
tion, it was only because it presaged 


24G 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


re- 


with terrible eloquence the disgrace that 
was to come. 

Still he tried to deceive himself. 

“They will return, madame; you will 
see them return, humble and repentant ! 
But where can Martial be?” 

The lady’s eyes flashed, but she made 
no reply. 

“Did he go away with the son of that 
rascal, Lacheneur?” 

“1 believe so.” 

“It will not be long before he 
turns ” 

“Who can say?” 

M. de Sairmeuse struck the marble man 
tel heavily with his clenched fist. 

“Mjr God!” he exclaimed, “this is an 
overwhelming misfortune.” 

The young wife believed that he was 
anxious and angry on her account. But 
she was mistaken. He was thinking onty 
of his disappointed ambition. 

Whatever he might pretend, the duke 
secretly confessed his son’s superiority 
and his genius for intrigue, and he was 
now extremely anxious to consult him. 

“Pie has wrought this evil; it is for 
him to repair it ! And he is capable of it 
if he chooses,” he murmured. 

Then, aloud, he resumed : 

“Martial must be found — he must be 
found ” 

With an angry gesture, Blanche inter- 
rupted him. 

“You must seek Marie- Anne if you 
wish to find — my husband.” 

The duke was of the same opinion, but 
he dared not avow it. 

“Anger leads you astray, marquise,” 
said he. 

“I know what I know.” 

“Martial will soon make his appear- 
ance, believe me. If he went away, he 
will soon return. They shall go for him 
at once, or I will go for him myself ” 

He left the room with a muttered oath, 
and Blanche approached her father, who 
still seemed to be unconscious. 

She seized his arm and shook it rough- 
ly. saying in the most peremptory tone : 

“Father! father!” 

This voice, which had so often made 
the Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, was 
far more efficacious than eau de Cologne. 
He opened one eye the least bit in the 
world, then quickly closed it. but not so 
quickly that his daughter failed to dis- 
cover it. 

“I wish to speak with you,” she said: 
“get up.” 

He dared not disobey, and slowly and 
with difficulty, he raised himself. 

“Ah! how I suffer!” he groaned, “how 
I suffer !” 

His daughter glanced at him scorn- 
fully ; then, in a tone of bitter irony, 
she remarked : 

“Do you think I am in Paradise?” 


“Speak,” sighed the marquis. “What him. 


do you wish to say !” 

The bride turned haughtily to the 
servants. 

“Leave the room!” she said imperi- 
ously. 

They obeyed, and, after she had locked 
the door : 

“Let us speak of Martial,” she began. 

At the sound of this name, the mar- 
quis bounded from his chair with 
clenched fists. 

“Ah the wretch!” he exclaimed. 
“Martial is my husband, father.” 

“And you! — after what he has done — 
you dare to defend him?” 

“I do not defend him; but I do not 
wish him to be murdered.” 

At that moment the news of Martial's 
death would have given the Marquis de 
Courtornieu infinite satisfaction. 

You heard, father,” continued 
Blanche, “ the rendezvous appointed to- 
morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I 
know Martial ; he has been insulted, and 
he will go there. Will he encounter a 
loyal adversary? No. He will find a 
crowd of assassins. You alone can pre- 
vent him from being assassinated.” 

“I — and how?” 

“By sending some soldiers to the 
Reche, with orders to conceal themselves 
in the grove — with orders to arrest these 
murderers at the proper moment.” 

The marquis gravely shook his head. 
“If I do that,” said he, “Martial is 
quite capable ” 

“Of anything! — yes, I know it. But 
what does it matter to you, since I am 
willing to assume the responsibility?” 

M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to pene- 
trate the bride’s real motive. 

“The order to Montaignac must be 
sent at once,” she insisted. 

Had she been less excited she would 
have discerned the gleam of malice in 
her father's eye. He was thinking that 
this would afford him an ample revenge, 
since he could bring dishonor upon Mar- 
tial. who had shown so little regard for 
the honor of others. 

“Very well; since you will have it so, 
iie said, with feigned reluctance. 

His daughter made haste to bring him 
ink and pens, and with trembling hands 
le prepared a series of minute instruc- 
tions for the commander at Montaignac. 

Blanche herself gave the letter to a 
servant, with directions to depart at 
once ; and it was not until she had seen 
him set off on a gallop that she went to 
her own apartments — the apartments in 
which Martial had gathered together all 
that was most beautiful and luxurious. 

But this splendor only aggravated the 
misery of the deserted wife, for that she 
was deserted she did not doubt for a 
moment. She was sure that her husband 
would not return; she did not expect 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


247 


The Duke de Sairmeuse was searching 
the neighborhood with a party of ser- 
vants. but she knew that it was labor lost ; 
that they would not encounter Martial. 

Where could he be? Near Marie-Anne 
most assuredly — and at the thought a 
wild desire to wreak her vengeance on 
her rival took possession of her heart. 

Martial, at Montaignac, had ended by 
going to sleep. 

Blanche, when daylight came,* ex- 
changed the snowy bridal robes for a 
black dress, and wandered about the 
garden like a restless spirit. 

She spent most of the day shut up in 
her room, refusing to allow the duke, or 
even her father, to enter. 

In the evening, about eight o'clock, 
they received tidings from Martial. 

A servant brought two letters; one. 
sent by Martial to his father, the other, 
to his wife. 

For a moment or more Blanche hesita- 
ted to opi n the one intended for her. It 
would determine her destiny; she was 
afraid. 

At last she broke the seal and read : 

4 ‘Madame la Marquise — Between you 
and me all is ended; reconciliation is 
impossible. 

4 ‘From this moment you are free. I 
esteem you enough to hope that you will 
respect the name of Sairmeuse, from 
which I cannot relieve you. 

1,4 You will agree with me, I am sure, 
in thinking a quiet separation preferable 
to the scandal of a divorce suit. 

“My lawyer will pay you an allowance 
befitting the wife of a inan whose income 
amounts to three hundred thousand 
francs. 

44 Martial de Sairmeuse.’’ 

Blmche staggered beneath this terri- 
ble blow. She was indeed deserted — 
and deserted, as she supposed, for another. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed 44 that creature! 
that creature ! I will kill her !” 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

Tiie twenty-four hours which Blanche 
had spent in measuring the extent of her 
terrible misfortune, the duke had spent 
in raving and swearing. 

He had not even thought of going to 
bed. 

After his fruitless search for his son he 
returned to the chateau, and began a 
continuous tramp to and fro in the great 
hall. 

He was almost sinking from weariness 
when his son’s letter was handed him. 

It was very brief. 

Martial did not vouchsafe any explan- 
ation ; he did not even mention the rup- 


ture between his wife and himself. 

44 I cannot return to Sairmeuse,” he 
wrote. 4 ‘and yet it is of the utmost im- 
portance that I should see you. 

“You will* I trust, approve my deter- 
minations when I explain the reasons 
that have guided me in making them. 

“Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner 
the better. I am waiting for you.” 

Had he listened to the prompting of 
his impatience, the duke would have 
started at once. But how could he thus 
abandon the Marquis de Courtornieu, 
who had accepted his hospitality, and 
especially Blanche, his son's wife? 

He must, at least, see them, speak to 
them, and warn them of his intended 
departure. 

He attempted this in vain. Madame 
Blanche h id shut herself up in her own 
apartments, and remained deaf to all en- 
treaties for admittance. Her father had 
been put to bed, and the physician who 
had been summoned to attend him, de- 
clared the marquis to be at death's door. 

The duke was therefore obliged to re- 
sign himself to the prospect of another 
night of suspense, which was almost in- 
tolerable to a character like his. 

4 t To-morrow, after breakfast, I will 
find some pretext to escape, without tell- 
ing them I am going to see Martial,” he 
thought. 

He was spared this trouble. The next 
morning, at about nine o’clock, while 
he was dressing, a servant came to in- 
form him that M. de Courtornieu and his 
daughter were awaiting him in the draw- 
ing-room. 

Much surprised, he hastened down. 

When he entered the room, the mar- 
quis, who was seated in an arm-chair, 
rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder 
of Aunt Medea. 

Madame Blanche came rapidly forward 
to meet the duke, as pale as if every 
drop of blood had been drawn from her 
veins. 

44 We are going, Monsieur le Due,” she 
said, coldly, 4 ‘and we wish to make our 
adieux.” 

“What! you are going? Will you not 


The young bride interrupted him by a 
sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s letter 
from her bosom, she handed it to M. de 
Sairmeuse, saying: 

“Will you do me the favor to peruse 
this, monsieur?” 

The duke glanced over the short epis- 
tle, and his astonishment was so intense 
that he could not even find an oath. 

‘‘Incomprehensible !” he faltered; 44 in- 
comprehensible !” 

“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated 
the young wife sadly, but without bitter- 
ness. 44 I was married yesterday ; to-day 
I am deserted. It would have been gen- 
erous to have reflected the evening be- 


248 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


fore and not the next day. Tell Martial, 
however, that I rorgive him for having 
destroyed my life, for having made me 
the most miserable of creatures. I also 
forgive him for the supreme insult of 
speaking to me of his fortune. I trust 
he may be happy. Adieu. Monsieur le 
Due, we shall never meet again. Adieu ! ” 

She took her father’s arm, and they 
were about to retire, when M. de Sair- 
meuse hastily threw himself between 
them and the door. 

“You shall not depart thus!’’ he ex- 
claimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait, at 
least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps 
lie is not as culpable as you suppose ” 

“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; 
“enough! This is one of those outrages 
which can never be repaired. May your 
conscience forgive you, as I, myself, 
forgive you. Farewell!” 

This was said so perfectly, with such 
entire harmony of intonation and 
gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was be- 
wildered. 

With an absolutely wonderstruck air 
he watched the marquis and his daughter 
depart, and they had been gone some 
moments before he recovered himself 
sufficiently to exclaim : 

“Old hypocrite! does he believe me 
his dupe?” 

His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so 
far from being his dupe, that his next 
thought was : 

“What is to follow this farce? He 
says that he pardons us — that means 
that he has some crushing blow in store 
for us.” 

This conviction filled him with disquie- 
tude. lie really felt unable to cope suc- 
cessfully with the perfidious marquis. 

“But Martial is a match for him !” he 
exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial at 
once.” 

So great was his anxiety that he lent a 
helping hand in ham^sing the horses 
he had ordered, and when the carriage 
was ready, he announced his determina- 
tion to drive himself. 

“As he urged the horses furiously on 
he tried to reflect, but the most contra- 
dictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he 
lost all power to consider the situation 
calmly. 

He burst into Martial’s room like a 
tornado. 

“I think you must certainly have gone 
mad, marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is 
the only valid excuse you can offer.” 

But Martial, who had been expecting 
this visit, had prepared himself for it. 

“Never, on the contrary, have I felt 
more calm and composed in mind,” he 
replied. “Allow me to ask you one 
question. Was it you who sent the 
soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice 
d'Escorval had appointed?” 


“Marquis !” 

“Very well! Then it was another act 
of infamy on the part of the Marquis de 
Courtoinieu.” 

The duke made no reply. In spite of 
his faults and his vices, this haughty 
man possessed the characteristic of the 
old French nobility— fidelity to his word 
and undoubted valor. 

He thought it perfectly natural, even 
necessary, that Martial should fight with 
Maurice ; and he thought it a contempti- 
ble act to send armed soldiers to seize an 
honest and confiding opponent. 

“This is the second time,” pursued 
Martial, “that this scoundrel has 
attempted to bring dishonor upon our 
name ; and if I desire to convince people 
of the truth of this assertion. I must 
break off all connection with him and 
his daughter. I have done this. I do 
not regret it, since I married her only 
out of deference to your wishes, and 
because it seemed necessary for me to 
marry, and because all women, save one 
who can never be mine, are alike to me.” 

Such utterances were not at all calcu- 
lated to reassure the duke. 

“This sentiment is very noble, no 
doubt,” said he; “but it has none the 
less ruined the political prospects of our 
house.” 

An almost imperceptible smile curved 
Martial's lips. 

“I believe, on the contrary, that I have 
saved them,” he replied. 

“It is useless for us to attempt to 
deceive ourselves; this whole affair of 
the insurrection has been abominable, 
and you have good reason to bless the 
opportunity of freeing yourself from the 
responsibility of it which this quarrel gives 
you. With a little address, you can 
throw all the odium upon the Marquis de 
Courtornieu, and keep for yourself only 
the prestige of valuable service ren- 
dered.” 

The duke's face brightened. 

“Zounds, marquis!” he exclaimed; 
“that is a good idea! In the future I 
shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtor- 
nieu. 

Martial remained thoughtful. 

“It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu 
whom I fear,” he murmured, "but his 
daughter — my wife.” 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

One must have lived in the country to 
know with what inconceivable rapidity 
news flies from mouth to mouth, 

Strange as it may seem, the news of 
the scene at the chateau reached Father 
Poignot’s farm-house that same evening. 
It had not been three hours since 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


219 


Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois left 
the house, promising to recross the 
frontier that same night. 

Abbe Midon had decided to say 
nothing to M. d'Escorval of his son’s 
return, and to conceal Marie-Anne's 
presence in the house. The baron’s con- 
dition was so critical that the merest 
trifle might turn the scale. 

About ten o'elock the baron fell asleep, 
and the abbe and Madame d'Escorval 
went down stairs to talk with Marie- 
Anne. As they were sitting there 
Poignot's eldest son entered in a state of 
great excitement. 

After supper he had gone with some of 
his acquaintances to admire the splendors 
of the fete , and he now came rushing 
back to relate the strange events of the 
evening to his father's guests. 

‘‘It is inconceivable!” murmured the 
abbe. 

He knew but too well, and the others 
comprehended it likewise, that these 
strange events rendered their situation 
more perilous than ever. 

“I cannot understand how Maurice 
could commit such an act of folly after 
what I had just said to him. The baron's 
most cruel enemy has been bis own son. 
We most wait until to-morrow before 
deciding upon anything.” 

The next day they heard of the meeting 
at the Reche. A peasant who, from a 
distance, had witnessed the preliminaries 
of the duel which had not been fought, 
was able to give them the fullest details. 

He had seen the two adversaries take 
their places, then the soldiers run to the 
spot, and afterwards pursue Maurice, 
Jean and Bavois. 

But he was sure that the soldiers had 
not overtaken them. He had met them 
five hours afterwards, harrassed and furi- 
ous ; and the officer in charge of the ex- 
pedition declared their failure to be the 
fault of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, who 
had detained them. 

That same day Father Poignot in- 
formed the abbe that the Duke de Sair- 
meuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu 
were at variance. It was the talk of the 
country. The marquis had returned to 
his chateau, accompanied by his daugh- 
ter, and the duke had gone to Montaig- 
nac. 

The ahbe's anxiety on receiving this 
intelligence was so poignant that he could 
not conceal it from Baron d'Escorval. 

“You have heard something, my 
friend,” said the baron. 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” 

“Some new danger threatens us.” 

“None. I swear it.” 

The priest’s protestations did not con- 
vince the baron. 

“Oh. do not deny it!” he exclaimed. 
Night before last, when you entered my 
room after I awoke, you were paler than 


'death, and my wife had certainly been 
crying. What does all this mean?” 

Usually, when the cure did not wish 
to reply to the sick man's questions, it 
was sufficient to tell him that conversa- 
tion and excitement would retard his 
recovery ; but this time the baron was 
not so docile. 

“It will be very easy for you to restore 
my tranquillity,” he said. “Confess 
now, that you are trembling lest they dis- 
cover my retreat. This fear is torturing 
me also. Very well, swear to me that 
you will not allow them to take me alive, 
and then my mind will be at rest.” 

“I cannot take such an oath as that,” 
said the cure, turning pale. 

“And why?” insisted M. d’Escorval. 
“If I am recaptured, what will happen? 
They will nurse me, and then, as soon as 
I can stand upon my feet, they will shoot 
me down. Would it be a crime to save 
me from such suffering? You are my 
best friend ; swear to render me this su- 
preme service. Would you have me curse 
you for saving my life?” 

The abbe made no response ; but his eye, 
voluntarily or involuntarily, turned with 
a peculiar expression to the box of medi- 
cine standing upon the table near by. 

Did he wish to be understood as 
saying : 

“I will do nothing; but you will find a 
poison there.” 

M. d'Escorval understood it in this way, 
for it was with an accent of gratitude 
that he murmured : 

“Thanks 1” 

Now that he felt that he was master of 
his life he breathed more freely. From 
that moment his condition, so long despe- 
rate, began to improve. 

“I can defy all my enemies from this 
hour,” he said, with a gayety which cer- 
tainly was not feigned. 

Day after day passed and the abbe’s 
sinister apprehensions were not realized ; 
he, too, began to regain confidence. 

Instead of causing an increase of 
severity, Maurice’s and Jean Lacheneur’s 
frightful imprudence had been, as it were, 
the point of departure for a universal in- 
dulgence. 

One might reasonably have supposed 
that the authorities of Montaignac had 
forgotten, and desh-ed to have forgotten, 
if that were possible, Lacheneur’s con- 
spiracy, and the abominable slaughter 
for which it had been made the pretext. 

They soon heard at the farm that Mau- 
rice and the brave corporal had succeeded 
in reaching Piedmont. 

No allusion was made to Jean Laehe- 
neur, so it was supposed that he had not 
left the country ; but they had no reason 
to fear for his safety, since he was not 
upon the proscribed list. 

Later, it was rumored that the Marquis 
de Courtornieu was ill, and that Mine. 


250 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Blanche did not leave his bedside. 

Soon afterward, Father Poignot, on re- 
turning from Montaignac, reported tha! 
the duke had just passed a week in Paris, 
and that he was now on his way home 
with one more decoration — another proof 
of royal favor — and that he had succeeded 
in obtaining an Older for the release of 
all the conspirators, who were now in 
prison. 

It was impossible to doubt this intelli- 
gence. for the Montaignac papers men- 
tioned til’s fact, with all the circumstances 
on the following day. 

The abbe attributed this sudden and 
happy change ent rely to the rupture 
between the duke and the marquis, and 
this was the universal opinion in the 
neighborhood. Even the retired officers 
remarked : 

“The duke is dec dedly better than he 
is supposed to be, and if he has been 
severe, it is only because he was influ- 
enced by that odious Marquis de Cour- 
tornieu.” 

Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. 
A secret presentiment told her that it 
was Martial de Sairmeuse who had shaken 
off 1 his wonted apathy, and was \\ orking 
these changes and using and abusing his 
ascendancy over the mind of his father. 

“And it is for your sake,*’ whispered 
an inward voice, “that Martial is thus 
working.'” What does this careless 
egotist care for these obscure peasants 
whose names he does not even know? If 
he protects them, it is only that he may 
have a right to protect you, and those 
whom you love !” 

With these thoughts in her mind she 
could not but feel her aversion to Martial 
diminish. 

Was not such conduct truly heroic in a 
man whose dazzl : ng offers she had re- 
fus d? Was there not real moral gran- 
deur in the feeling that induced Martial 
to reveal a secret which might ruin the 
political fortunes of his house, rather 
than be suspected of an unworthy action? 
And still the thought of this grande pas- 
sion which she had inspired in so truly 
great a man never once made her heart 
quicken its throbbing. 

Alas! nothing was capable of touching 
her heart now; not!. in £ seemed to reach 
her through the gloomy sadness that 
enveloped her. 

She was but the ghost of the formerly 
beautiful and radiant Marie-Anne. Her 
quick, alert tread had become slow and 
dragging, often she sat for whole days 
motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed 
upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by 
a spasm, while great tears rolled silently 
down her cheeks. 

Abbe Midon. who was greatly disquiet- 
ed on her account, often attempted to 
question her. 


“You are suffering, my child,” he said 
kindly. “What is the matter?” 

“I am not ill, monsieur.” 

“Why do you not confide in me? Am 
1 not your friend? What do you fear?” 

She shook her head sadly and replied : 

“I have nothing to confide,” 

She said this, and yet she was dying of 
sorrow and anguish. 

Faithful to the promise she had made 
Maurice, she had said nothing of her 
condition, or of the marriage solemn- 
ized in the little church at Vigano. And 
she saw with inexpressible terror, the 
approach of the moment when she could 
no longer keep her secret. Her agony 
was frightful ; but what could she do ! 

Fly? but where should she go? And 
by going, would she not lose all chance 
of hearing from Maurice, which was the 
only hope that sustained her in this try- 
ing hour? 

She had almost determined on flight 
when circumstances — providentally, it 
seemed to her — came to her aid. 

Money was needed at the farm. The 
guests were unable to obtain any with- 
out betraying their whereabouts, and 
Father Poignot's little store was almost 
exhausted. 

Abbe Midon was wondering what they 
were to do, when Marie-Anne told him 
of the will which Chanlouineau had 
made in her favor, and of the money 
concealed beneath the liearth-stone in the 
best chamber. 

“I might go to the Borderie at night,” 
suggested Marie-Anne, “enter the house, 
which is unoccupied, obtain the money 
and bring it here. 1 have a right to do 
so, have I not?” 

But the priest did not approve this 
step. 

“You might be seen,” said he, “and 
who knows — perhaps arrested. If you 
were questioned, what plausible explana- 
tion could you give?” 

“What shall 1 do, then!” 

“Act openly; you are not comprom- 
ised. Make your appearance in Sair- 
meuse to-morrow as if you had just 
returned from Piedmont ; go to the 
notary, take possession of your property, 
and install yourself at the Borderie.” 

Marie-Anne shuddered. 

“Live in Chanlouineau’s house,” she 
faltered. “I alone!” 

“Heaven will protect you, my dear 
child. I can see only advantages in 
your installation at the Borderie. It will 
oe easy to communicate with you; and 
with ordinary precautions there can be 
no danger. Before your departure we 
will decide upon a place of rendezvous, 
and two or three times a week you can 
meet Father Poignot there. And, in the 
course of two or three months you can 
Ibe still more useful to us. When people 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


251 


have become accustomed to your resi- 
dence at the Borderie, we will take the 
baron there. His convalescence will be 
much more rapid there, than here in this 
cramped and narrow loft, where we are 
obliged to conceal him now, and where 
he is really suffering for light and air.” 

So it was decided that Father Poignot 
should accompany Marie-Anne to the 
frontier that very night ; there she would 
take the diligence that ran between Pied- 
mont and Montaignac, passing through 
the village of Sainneuse. 

It was with the greatest care that the 
abbe dictated to Marie-Anne the story 
she was to tell of her sojourn in foreign 
lands. All that she said, and all her 
answers to questions must tend to prove 
that Baron d'Escorval was concealed 
near Turin. 

The plan was carried out in every par- 
ticular ; and the next day, about eight 
o’clock, the people of Sairmeuse were 
greatly astonished to see Marie-Anne 
alight from the diligence. 

“M. Lacheneur’s daughter has re- 
turned !” 

The words flew from lip to lip with 
marvelous rapidity, and soon all the in- 
habitants of the village were gathered at 
the doors and windows. 

They saw the poor girl pay the driver, 
and enter the inn, followed by a boy 
bearing a small trunk. 

In the city, curiosity has some shame; 
it hides itself while it spies into the affairs 
of its neighbors ; but in the country it 
has no such scruples. 

When Marie-Anne emerged from the 
inn, she found a crowd awai ing her with 
open mouths and staring eyes. 

And more than twenty people making 
all sorts of comments, followed her to 
the door of the notary. 

He was a man of importance, this no- 
tary, and he welcomed Marie-Anne with 
; 11 the deference due an heiress of an un- 
encumbered property, worth from forty 
to fifty. thousand francs. 

But jealous of his renown for perspi- 
cuity, he gave her clearly to understand 
that he, being a man of expei ience, had 
divined that love alone had dictated 
Chanlouineau’s last will and testament. 

Marie-Anne’s composure and resigna- 
tion made him really angry. 

•‘You forget what brings me here,” she 
said ; “you do not tell me what I have to 
do!” 

The notary, thus interrupted, made no 
further attempts at consoiation. 

“ Peste /” he thought, “she is in a hurry 
to get possession of her property — the 
avaricious creature !” 

Then aloud : 

“The business can be terminated at 
once, for the justice of the peace is at 
liberty to-day, and he can go with us to 
break the seals this afternoon.” 


So, before evening, all the legal re- 
quirements were comp ied with, and 
Marie-Anne was formally installed at the 
Borderie. 

She was alone in Chanlouineau’s house 
— alone! Night came on and a great 
terror seized her heart. It seemed to her 
that the doors were about to open, that 
this man who had loved her so much 
would appear before her, and that she 
would hear his voice as she heard it for 
the last time in his grim prison cell. 

She fought against these foolish fears, 
lit a lamp, and went through this house — 
now hers — in which everything spoke so 
forcibly of its former owner. 

Slowly she examined the different 
rooms on the lower floor, noting the re- 
cent repairs which had been made and 
the conveniences which had be n added, 
and at last she ascended to that room 
above which Cnanlouineau had made the 
tabernacle of his passion. 

Here, everything was magnificent, far 
more so than his words had led her to 
-uppose. The poor peasant who made 
his breakfast off* a crust and a bit of onion 
had lavished a small fortune on the dec- 
orations of this apartment, designed as a 
sanctuary for his idol. 

“How he loved me !” murmured Marie- 
Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare 
thought of which had awakened the jeal- 
ousy of Maurice. 

But she had neither the time nor the 
right to yield to her feelings. Father 
Poignot was doubtless, even then, await- 
ing her at the rendezvous. 

She lifted the hearth-stone, and found 
the sum of money which Chanlouineau 
had named. 

The next morning, when he woke, the 
abbe received the money. 

Now. Marie-Anne could breathe freely ; 
and this peace, after so many trials and 
agitations, seemed to her almost happi- 
ness. 

Faithful to the abbe's instructions, she 
lived alone; but, by frequent visits, she 
accustomed the people of the neighbor- 
hood to her presence. 

Y es, she would have been almost happy, 
could she have had news of Maurice. 
What had become of him ! Why did he 
give no sign of life? What would she 
not have given in exchange for some 
word of counsel and of love from him? 

The time was fast approaching when 
she wouid require a confidant ; and there 
was no one in whom she could confide. 

In this hour of extremity, when she 
really felt that her reason was failing her. 
she remembered the old physician at 
Yigano, who had been one of the wit- 
nesses to her marriage. 

“He would help me if I called upon 
him for aid,” she thought. 

She had no time to temporize or to re- 
flect ; she wrote to him immediately, giv- 


252 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


mg the letter in charge of a youth in the 
neighborhood. 

‘•The gentleman says you may rely up- 
on him,” said the messenger on 1 s re- 
turn. 

That very evening Marie-Anne heard 
some one rap at her door. It was the 
kind-hearted old man who had come to 
her rel ef . 

He remained at the Bordcrie nearly 
a fortnight. 

When he departed one morning, before 
daybreak, he took away with him under 
his large cloak an infant — a boy — whom 
he had sworn to cherish as his own child. 


CHAPTER LXXN 

To quit Sairmeuse without any display 
of violence had cost Blanche an almost 
superhuman effort. 

The wildest anger convulsed her soul 
at the very moment, when, with an as- 
sumption of melancholy dignity, she 
murmured those words of forgiveness. 

Ah ! had she obeyed the dictates of her 
resentment ! 

But her indomitable vanity aroused 
within her the heroism of a gladiator dy- 
ing on the arena, with a smile upon his 
lips. 

Falling, she intended to fall gracefully. 

“No one shall see me weep; no on 1 
shall hear me complain,” she said to her 
despondent father; “try to imitate me.” 

And on her return to the Chateau de 
Courto nieu, she was a stoic. 

Her face, although pale, was as immo- 
bile as marble, beneath the curious gaze 
of the servants. 

“I am to be called mademoiselle as in 
the past,” she said, imperiously. “Any 
one forgetting this order will be dis- 
missed.” 

A maid forgot that very day, and ut- 
tered the prohibited word, “madame.” 
The poor girl was instantly dismissed, in 
spite of her tears and protestations. 

All the servants were indignant. 

“Does she hope to make us forget that 
she is married and that her husband has 
deserted her?” they queried. 

Alas! she wished to forget it herself. 
She wished to annihilate all recollection 
of that fatal day whose sun had seen her 
a maiden, a wife, and a widow. 

For was she not really a widow? 

Only it was not death which had de- 
prived her of her husband, but an odious 
rival — an infamous and j '> fidious crea- 
ture lost to all sense of shame. 

And yet, though she had been dis- 
dained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was 
no longer free. 

She belonged to the man whose name 
she bore like a badge of servitude — to the 
man who hated her, who fled from her. 


She was not yet twenty ; and this was 
the end of her youth, of her life, of her 
hopes, and even of her dreams. 

Society condemned her to solitude, 
while Martial was free to rove whereso- 
ever fancy might lead him. 

Now she saw the disadvantage of isolat- 
ing one's self. She had not been without 
friends in her school-girl days ; but after 
leaving the convent she had alienated 
them by her haughtiness, on finding them 
not as high in rank, nor as rich as herself. 
She was now reduced to the irritating 
consolations of Aunt Medea, who was a 
worthy person, undoubted!}* - , but her 
tears flowed quite as freely for the loss 
of a cat, as for the death of a relative. 

But Blanche bravely resolved that she 
would conceal her grief and despair in 
the recesses of her own heart. 

She drove about the country ; she wore 
the prettiest dresses in her trousseau ; she 
forced herself to appear gay and in- 
different. 

But on going to attend high mass in 
Sairmeuse the following Sunday, she 
realized the futility of her efforts. 

People did not look at her haughtily, 
or even curiously ; but they turned away 
their heads to laugh, and she overheard 
remarks upon the maiden widow which 
pierced her very soul. 

They mocked her ; they ridiculed her ! 

“Oh! 1 will have my revenge!” she 
muttered. 

But she had not waited for these in- 
sults before thinking of vengeance; and 
she had found her father quite ready to 
assist her in her plans. 

For the first time the father and the 
daughter were in accord. 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse shall learn 
what it costs to aid in the escape of a 
prisoner and to insult a man like me. 
Fortune, favor, position — he shall lose 
all! I hope to see him ruined and dis- 
honored at my feet. You shall see that 
day! you shall see that day!” said the 
marquis, vehemently. 

But, unfortunately for him and his 
plans, he was extremely ill for three days, 
after the scene at Sairmeuse; then he 
wasted three days more in composing a 
report, which was intended to crush his 
former ally. 

This delay ruined him, since it gave 
Martial time to perfect his plans and to 
send the Duke de Sairmeuse to Paris 
skillfully indoctrinated. 

And what did the duke say to the king, 
who accorded him such a gracious re- 
ception? 

He undoubtedly pronounced the first 
reports false, reduced the Montaignac 
revolution to its proper proportions, rep- 
resented Lacheneur as a fool, and his fol- 
lowers as inoffensive idiots. 

Perhaps he led the king to suppose that 
the Marquis de Courtornieu might have 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


253 


provoked the outbreak by undue severity. 
He had served under Napoleon, and pos- 
sibly had thought it necessary to make a 
display of his zeal. There have been such 
cases. 

So far as he himself was concerned, he 
deeply deplored the mistakes into which 
he had been led by the ambitious mai- 
quis, upon whom he cast most of the 
responsibility for the blood which had 
been shed. 

The result of all this was, that when 
the Marquis de Courtornieu’s report 
reached Paris, it was answered by a de- 
cree depriving him of the office of grand 
prevot. 

This unexpected blow crushed him. 

To think that a man as shrewd, as 
subtle-minded, as quick-witted, and 
adroit as himself — a man who had passed 
through so many troubled epoc .who 
had served with the same obsequious 
countenance all the masters who would 
accept his services — to think that such a 
man should have been thus duped and 
betrayed ! 

“It must be that old imbecile, the Duke 
de Sairmeuse, who has manoeuvred so 
skillfully, and with so much a Iress,” he 
said. “But who advised him V I cannot 
imagine who it could have been.” 

Who it was Madame Blanche knew only 
too well. 

She recognized Martial’s hand in all 
this, as Mari e-Anne had done. 

“Ah ! I was not deceived in him,” she 
thought; “he is the great diplomatist I 
believed him to be. At his age to outwit 
my father, an old politician of such ex- 
perience and acknowledged astuteness ! 
And he does all this to please Marie- 
Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. 
“It is the first step towards obtaining 
pardon for the friends of that vile crea- 
ture. She has unbounded influence over 
him, and so long as she lives there is no 
hope for me. But, patience.” 

She was patient, realizing that he who 
wishes to surely attain his revenge must 
wait, dissimulate, prepare an opportunity, 
but not force it. 

What her revenge should be she had 
not jmt decided ; but she already had her 
eye upon a man whom she believed would 
be a willing instrument in her hands, and 
capable of doing anything for money. 

But how had such a man chanced to 
cross the path of Madame Blanche? How 
did it happen that she was cognizant of 
the existence of such a person ? 

It was the result of one of those simple 
combinations of circumstances which go 
by the name of chance. 

Burdened with remorse, despised and 
jeered at. and stoned whenever he showed 
himself upon the street, and horror- 
stricken whenever he thought of the 
terrible threats of Balstain, the Piedmon- 
tese inn-keeper, Chupin left Montaignac 


' and came to beg an asylum in the Chat- 
eau de Sairmeuse. 

In his ignorance, he thought that the 
grand seigneur who had employed him, 
and who had profited by his treason, 
owed him, over and above the promised 
reward, aid and protection. 

But the servants shunned him. They 
would not allow him a seat at the kitch- 
en table, nor would the grooms allow 
him to sleep in the stables. Thej r threw 
him a bone, as they would have thrown 
it to a dog ; and he slept where he could. 

He boro, all this uncomplainingly, 
deeming li' iself fortunate in being able 
to purchase comparative safety at such a 
price. 

But when the duke returned from Paris 
with a policy of forgetfulness and concil- 
iation in his pocket, he would no longer 
tolerate the presence of this man, who 
was the object of universal execration. 

He ordered the dismissal of Chupin. 

The latter resisted, swearing that he 
would not leave Sairmeuse unless he was 
forcibly expelled, or unless he received 
the order from the lips of the duke him- 
self. 

This obstinate resistance was reported 
to the duke. It made him hesitate ; but 
the necessity of the moment, and a word 
from Martial, decided him. 

He sent for Chupin and told him that 
he must not visit Sairmeuse again under 
any pretext whatever, softening the 
harshness of expulsion, however, by the 
offer of a small sum of money. 

But Chupin sullenly refused the money, 
gathered his belongings together, and 
departed, shaking his clenched fist at the 
chateau, and vowing vengeance on the 
Sairmeuse family. r fihen he went to his 
old home, where his wife and his two 
boys still lived. 

He seldom left the house, and then 
only to satisfy his passion for hunting. 
At such times, instead of hiding and sur- 
rounding himself with every precaution, 
as he had done, before shooting a squir- 
rel or a few partridges, in former times, 
he went boldly to the Sairmeuse or the 
Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and 
brought it home openly, almost defiantly. 

The rest of the time he spent in a state 
of semi-intoxication, for he drank con- 
stantly and more and more immoderately. 
When he had taken more than usual-, his 
wife and his sons generally attempted 
to obtain money from him, and if persua- 
sions failed they resorted to blows. 

For he had never given them the re- 
ward of his treason. What had he done 
with the twenty thousand francs in gold 
which had been paid him ? No one knew. 
His sons believed he had buried it some- 
where; but they tried in vain to wrest 
his secret from him. 

All the people in the neighborhood 
were aware of this state of affairs, and 


254 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


regarded it as a just punishment for the 
traitor. Madame Blanche overheard one 
of the gardeners telling the story to two 
of his assistants : 

“Ah, the man is an old scoundrel!” 
he said, his face crimson with indignat Ion. 
“He should be in the galleys, and not at 
large among respectable people.” 

“ITe is a man who would serve your 
purpose,” the voice of hatred whispered 
in Blanche’s ear. 

“But how can I find an opportunity to 
confer with him?” she wondered. Ma- 
dame Blanche was too prudent to think of 
hazarding a visit to his house, but she re- 
membered that he hunt d occasionally 
in the Courtornieu woods, and that it 
might be possible for her to meet him 
there. 

“It will only require a little persever- 
ance and a few long walks,” she said to 
herself. 

But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the ine- 
vitable chaperon, two long weeks of 
almost continued walking. 

“Another freak !” groaned the poor 
relative, overcome with fatigue; “my 
niece is certainly crazy !” 

But one lovely afternoon in May 
Blanche discovered what she sought. 

It was in a sequestered spot near the 
lake. Chupin was tramping sullenly 
along with his gun in his hand, glancing 
suspiciously on every side! Not that he 
feared the game-keeper or a verbal pro- 
cess, but wherever he wert. he fancied 
he saw Balstain walking in his shadow, 
with that terrible knife in his hand. 

Seeing Madame Blanche he tried to 
hide himself in the forest, but she pre- 
vented it by calling : 

“Father Chupin !” 

He hesitated for a moment, then he 
paused, dropped his gun, and waited. 

Aunt Medea was pale with fright. 

“Blessed Jesus !” she murmured, pres- 
sing her niece's arm ; “why do you call 
that terrible man?” 

“I wish to speak with him.” 

“What, Blanche, do you dare ” 

“I must !” 

“No, I cannot allow it. I must 
not ” 

“There, that is enough,” said Blanche, 
with one of those imperious glances that 
deprive a dependent of all strength and 
courage; “quite enough.'” 

Then, in gentler tones : 

“I must talk with this man,” she added. 

“You, Aunt Medea, will remain at a 
little distance. Keep a close watch on 
every side, and if you see any one ap- 
proaching. call me, whoever it may be.” 

Aunt Medea, submissive as she was 
ever wont to be, obeyed; and Madame 
Blanche advanced towards the old poach- 
er. who stood as motionless as the 
trunks of the giant trees around him. 

“Well, my good Father Chupin, what 


sort of sport have you had to-day!” she 
began, when she was a few steps from 
him. 

“What do you want with me?” growl- 
ed Chupin; “for you do want something, 
or you would not trouble yourself about 
such as I.” * 

It required all Blanche’s determination 
to repress a gesture of fright and of dis- 
gust; but, in a resolute tone, she replied : 

“Yes, it is true that I have a favor to 
ask you.” 

“Ah, ha! I supposed so.” 

“A mere trifle which will cost you no 
trouble and for which you shall be well 
paid.” 

She said this so carelessly that one 
would really have supposed the service 
was unimportant; but cleverly as she 
played her part. Chupin was not deceived. 

“No one asks trifling services of a man 
like me,” he said coarsely. 

“Since I li„ve served the good cause, 
at the peril of my life, people seem to 
suppose that they have a right to come to 
me with their money in their hands, 
when they desire any dirty work done. 
It is true that I was well paid for that 
other job ; but I would like to melt all the 
gold and pour it down the throats of 
those who gave it to me. 

“Ah ! I know what it costs the humble 
to listen to the w r ords of the great ! Go 
your way ; and if you have any wicked- 
ness in your head, do it yourself !” 

He shouldered his gun and was moving 
away, when Madame Blanche said, cold- 

“It was because I knew your wrongs 
that I stopped you ; I thought you would 
be glad to serve me, because I hate the 
Sairmeuse.” 

These words excited the in erest of the 
old poacher, and he paused. 

“I know very well that you hate the 
Sairmeuse now — but — ” 

“But what !” 

“In less than a month you will be 
reconciled. And you will pay the ex- 
penses of the war and of the reconcilia- 
tion? That old wretch, Chupin — ” 

“We shall never be reconciled.” 

“Hum!” he growled, after deliberating 
awhile. “And if I should aid you, what 
compensation will you give me?” 

“I will give you whatever you desire — 
money, land, a house — ” 

“Many thanks. I desire something 
quite different.” 

“What? Name your conditions.” 

Chupin reflected a moment, then he 
replied : 

“This is what I desire. I have enemies 
—I do not even feel safe in my own 
house. My sons abuse me when I have 
been drinking; my wife is quite capable 
of poisoning my wine; I tremble for my 
life and for my money. I cannot endure 
this existence much longer. Promise me 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


255 


an asylum in the Chateau de Courtornieu, 
and I am yours. In your house I shall be 
safe. But let it be understood, I will not 
be. ill-treated by the servants as I was at 
Sairmeuse.” 

“It shall be as you desire.” 

“Swear it by your hope of heaven.” 

“I swear.” 

There was such an evident sincerity in 
her accent that Chupin was reassured. 
He leaned towards her, and said, in a low 
voice : 

“Now tell me your business.” 

His small gray eyes glittered with a 
demoniac light; his thin lips were tightly 
drawn over his sharp teeth ; he was evi- 
dently expecting some proposition to 
murdt r, and he was ready. 

His attitude showed this so plainly that 
Blanche shuddered. 

“Really, what I ask of you is almost 
nothing,” she replied. “I only wish you 
to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.” 
“Your husband?” 

“Yes; my husband. I wish to know 
what he does, where he goes, and what 
persons he sees. J wish to know how 
each moment of his time is spent. 

“What! seriously, frankly, is this all 
that you desire of me?” Chupin asked. 

“For the present, yes. My plans are 
not yet decided. It depends upon cir- 
cumstances what action I shall take.” 

“You can rely upon me,” he responded ; 
“but I must have a little time.” 

“Yes, I understand. To-day is Satur- 
daj 7- ; will you be ready to report on 
Thursday ?” 

“In live days? Yes, probably.” 

“In that case, meet me here on Thurs- 
day, at this same hour.” 

A cry from Aunt Medea interrupted 
them. 

“Some one is coming!” Madame 
Blanche exclaimed. “Quick! we must 
not be seen together. Conceal yourself.” 

With a bound the old poacher disap- 
peared in the forest. 

A servant had approached Aunt Medea, 
and was speaking to her with great 
animation. 

Blanche hastened towards them. 

“Ah! mademoiselle,” exclaimed the 
servant, “we have been seeking you 
everywhere for three hours. Your 
father, M. le Marquis — man Dieu\ what 
a misfortune! A physician has been 
summoned.” 

“Is my father dead?” 

“No, mademoiselle, no; but — how can 
I tell you. When the marquis went out 
this morning his actions were very 
strange, and — and — when he returned — ” 
As he spoke the servant tapped his 
forehead with the end of his foretinger. 

“You understand me, mademoiselle — 
when he returned, reason had fled J” 
Without waiting for her terrified aunt, 


Blanche darted in the direction of the 
chateau. 

“How is the marquis !” she inquired of 
the first servant whom she met. 

“He is in his room on the bed ; he is 
more quiet now.” 

She had already reached his room. 
He was seated upon the bed, and two 
servants were watching his every move- 
ment. His face was livid, and a white 
foam had gathered upon his lips. Still, 
he recognized his daughter. 

“Here you are,” said he. “I was wait- 
ing for you.’* 

She remained upon the threshold, 
quite overcome, although she was nei- 
ther tender-hearted nor impressionable. 

“My father!” she faltered. “Good 
heavens! what has happened?” He 
uttered a discordant laugh. 

“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. 
Do you doubt me? I tell you that I saw 
the wretch. I know him well ; have I 
not seen his cursed face before my eyes 
for more than a month — for it never 
leaves me. I saw him. It was in the 
forest near the Sanguille rocks. You 
know the place; it is always dark there, 
on account of the trees. I was return- 
ing slowly, thinking of him, when sud- 
denly he sprang up before me, extend- 
ing his arms as if to bar my passage. 

“ ‘Come,’ said he, l you must come and 
join me.’ He was armed with a gun ; he 
fired — ” 

The marquis paused, and Blanche sum- 
moned sufficient courage to approach 
him. For more than a minute &he fast- 
ened upon him that cold and persistent 
ook that is said to exercise such power 
over those who have lost their reason ; 
then, shaking him energetically bj r the 
arm, she said, almost roughly : 

“Control yourself, father. You are the 
victim of an hallucination. It is impossi- 
ble that you have seen — the man of whom 
you speak.” 

Who it was that M. de Courtornieu sup- 
posed he had seen, Blanche knew only 
too well; but she dared not, could not, 
utter the name. 

But the marquis had resumed his in- 
coherent narrative. 

“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, 
it was certainly Lacheneur who confront- 
ed me. Iam sure of it, and the proof is, 
that he reminded me of a circumstance 
which occurred in my youth, and which 
was known only to him and me. It hap- 
pened during the Reign of Terror. He 
was all-powerful in Montaignac ; and I 
was accused of being in correspondence 
with the emigres. My property had been 
confiscated; and every moment I was 
expecting to feel the hand of the execu- 
tioner upon my shoulder, when Laehe- 
eneur took me into his house. He con- 
cealed me; he furnished me with a pass- 
port ; he saved my money, and he saved 


236 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


my head — I sentenced him to death. That 
is the reason why I have seen him again. 
I must rejoin him; he told me so — I am a 
dying man!” 

He fell back upon his pillows, pulled 
the sheet up over his face, and, lying 
there, rigid and motionless, one mifht 
readily have supposed it was a corpse, 
whose outlines could be vaguely dis- 
cerned through the bed-coverings. 

Mute with horror, the servants ex- 
changed frightened glances. 

Such baseness and ingratitude amazed 
them. It seemed incomprehensible to 
them, under such circumstances, that the 
marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur. 

Madame Blanche alone retained her 
presence of mind. Turning to her father's 
valet, she said : 

“It is not possible that any one has at- 
tempted to injure my father?” 

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, a 
little more and he would have been 
killed.” 

“How do you know this?’’ 

“In undressing the marquis I noticed 
that he had received a wound in the head. 

I also examined his hat, and in it I founc 
three holes, which could only have been 
made by bullets.” 

The worthy valet de chambre was cer- 
tainly more agitated than the daughter. 

“Then some one must have attempted 
to assassinate my father,” she murmured, 
“and this attack of delirium has been 
brought on by fright. How can we find 
out who the would-be murderer was?’’ 

The servant shook his head. 

“I suspect that old poacher, who is 
always prowling around, is the guiltv 
man — Chupin.” 

“No, it could not have been he.” 

“Ah ! I am almost sure of it. There is 
no one else in the neighborhood capable 
of such an evil deed.” 

Madame Blanche could not give her 
reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. 
Nothing jn the world would have induced 
her to admit that she had met him, talked 
with him for more than half an hour, and 
just parted from him. 

She was silent. In a few moments the 
physician arrived. 

He removed the covering from M. de 
Courtornieu’s face— he was almost com- 
pelled to use force to do it— examined the 
patient with evident anxiety, then order- 
ed mustard plasters, applications of ice to 
the head, leeches, and a potion, for which 
a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at 
once. All was bustle and confusion. 

When the physician left the sick-room, 
Madame Blanche followed him. 

“Well, doctor,” she said, with a ques- 
tioning look. 

Wdh con iderable hesitation.he replied : 

“People sometimes recover from such 
attacks.” 

It really mattered little to Blanch. 


whether her father recovered or died, but 
she felt that an opportunity to recover 
her lost prestige was now afforded her. If 
she desired to turn public opinion against 
Martial, she must improvise for herself 
an entirely different reputation. If she 
could erect a pedestal upon which she 
could pose as a patient victim, her satisfac- 
tion would be intense. Such an occasion 
now offered itself, and she seized it at 
once. 

Never did a devoted daughter lavish 
more touching and delicate attentions 
upon a sick father. It was impossible to 
induce her to leave his bedside for a mo- 
ment. It was only with great difficulty 
that they cou d persuade her to sleep for 
a couple of hours, in an arm-chair in the 
sick-room. 

But while she was playing the role of 
Sister of Charity which she had imposed 
upon herself, her thoughts followed Chu- 
pin. What was he doing in Montaignac? 
Was he watching Martial as he had 
promised? How slow the day appointed 
for the meeting was in coming! 

It came at last, however, and aft r en- 
trusting her father to the care of Aunt 
Medea, Blanche made her escape. 

The old poacher was awaiting her at 
the appointed place. 

“Speak!” said Madame Blanche. 

“I would do so willingly, only I have 
nothing to tell you ” 

“What! you have not watched the 
marquis?” 

“Your husband? Excuse me, I have 
followed him like his own shadow. But 
what would you have me say to you ; 
Since the duke left for P<:ris, your hus- 
band has charge of everything. Ah ! you 
would not recognize him ! lie is always 
busy now. He is up at cock-crow; and 
he goes to bed with the chickens. He 
writes letters all the morning. In the 
afternoon he receives all who call upon 
him. The retired officers are hand and 
glove with him. He has reinstated five 
or six of them, and he has granted per- 
sions to two others. He seldom goes out, 
and never in the evening.” 

He paused, and for more than a innate 
Blanche was silent. She was confused 
and agitated by the question that rose to 
her lips. What humiliation! But {he 
conquered her embt rrassmen , and t tru- 
ing away her head iO mde iter crimson 
face, she said : 

“But he certainly has a mistress !” 
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. 

“Well, we have come to it at" la t,” he 
said, with an audacious familiarity that 
made Blanche shudder. “You meat 
that scoundrel Lat heneur's taagh er, do 
you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie- 
Anne?” 

Blanche felt that denial was it eles . 
“Yes,” she answered; “it is M rie- 
Anne that I mean.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


257 


“Ah well! she has been neither seen 
nor heard from. She must have fled 
with another of her lovers, Maurice 
d’Escorval.” 

“You are mistaken.” 

“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lache- 
neurs only Jean remains, and he live 
like the vagabond that he is, by poach- 
ing and stealing. Day and night he ram- 
bles through the woods with his gun on 
his shoulder. He is frightful to look 
upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes 
glitter like live coals. If he ever meets 
me, my account will be settled then and 
there.” 

Blanche turned pale. It was Jean 
Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis 
then. She did not doubt it in the least. 

“Very well!” said she, “I, mysel c , an 
sure that Marie- Anne is in the neighbor- 
hood, concealed in Montaignac, probably 
I must know. Endeavor to dtscover hei 
retreat before Monday, when I will meet 
you here again.” 

“I will try,” Chupin ars vered. 

He did indeed try ; he exerted all his 
energy and cunning, but in vain. He 
was fettered by the precautions which ht 
took against Balstain and against Jean 
Lacheneur. On the other hand, no one 
in the neighborhood would have con- 
sented to give him the least information 

“Still no news !” he said to Madam* 
Blanche at each interview. 

But she would not yield. Jealousy 
will not yield even to evidence. 

Blanche had declared that Marie-Ann< 
had taken her husband from her, that 
Martial and Marie-Anne loved each 
other, hence it must be so. all proofs to 
the c mtia y notwi hstanding. 

But one morning, she found her spy 
jubilant, 

“Good news !” he cried, as soon as h< 
saw her; “we have caeght the minx a 
last.” 


CHAPTER LXXXYI. 

It was the second day after Mai ie- 
Anne's installation at the Borderie. 

That event was the general topic of 
conversation; and Chanlouineau’s wil 
was the subject of countless co nments. 

“Here is M. Lacheneur’s daughter w t 
an income of more than two thous-an 
francs, without counting the house, 
said the old people, gravely. 

“An honest girl v\ o lid have had no 
such luck as that!” muttered the unat 
tractive maidens who had not been for- 
tunate enough to secure husbands. 

This was the great news which Chupin 
brought to Madame Blanche. 

She listened to it, trembling with 

17 


anger, her hands so convulsively clenched 
that the nails penetrated the flesh. 

“What audacity!” she exclaimed. 
“What impudence !” 

The old poacher seemed to be of the 
same opinion. 

“If each of her lovers gives her as 
much she will be richer than a queen. 
She will have enough to buy both Sa'r- 
meuse and C urtomieu, if she choose,” 
he remarked, m liaiously. 

If he had desired to augment the 
rage of Madame Blanche, he had good 
reason to be satisfied. 

“And this is the woman who has aliena- 
ted Martial’s heart from me!” she ex- 
claimed. “It is for this miserable wretch 
that he abandons me !” 

The unworthiness of the unfortunate 
girl whom she regarded as her rival, in- 
censed her to such a degree that she en- 
tirely forgot Chupin’s presence. She 
made no attempt to restrain h irself or to 
hide the secret of her sufferings. 

“Are you sure that what you tell me is 
true?” she ask* d. 

“As sure as that you stand there.” 

“Who told y u ill this?” 

“No o e — I have eyes. I went to the 
Borderie yesterh y to see for myself, an l 
all i he si utters w re open. Marie-Anne 
was leaning < ut of a window. She does 
not ev< n wear mourning, the heartless 
hussy !” 

Poor Marie-Anne indeed, had no dress 
but the one wh ch Madame d'Escorval 
had given her on the night of the insur- 
rect on, when she laid as .de her masculin > 
habi iments. 

Chupin vished to irritate Mad me 
Blanche still more by other malic ous 
remarks, but she < hecke l 1-i n by a ges- 
ture. 

“So you knovi the way to the Borderie ?” 
she inquired. 

“Perfectly.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Opposite the mills of the Oiselle, near 
the river, about a league and a half from 
here.” 

‘That is ti ue. I remember now. Were 
you ever in hehoise?’ 

“Mo e than a hundred times while 

hai louineau was living.” 

“Explain thi topography of the dwell- 
ing? 

Chupin’s eyes dilated to their widest 
extent. 

“What do you wish?” he asked, not 
u derstanding in the least what was re- 
quired of him. 

“I mean, explain how the house is 
c nstructed.” 

“Ah! now I understand. The house 
is built upon an open space a little dis- 
tance from the road. Before it is a small 
garden, and behind it an orchard enclos *d 
by a hedge. Back of the orchard, to the 
right, are the vineyards ; but on the h f; 


253 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


sidefs a small grove that shades a spring. 

He paused suddenly, and with a know- 
ing wink, inquired : 

“But what use do you expect to make 
of all this information?” 

“What does that matter to you? How 
is the interior arranged?” 

“There are three large square rooms 
on the ground floor, besides the kitchen 
and a small dark room.” 

“Now, what is on the floor above?” 

“I have never been up there.” 

“How are the rooms furnished which 
you have visited !” 

“Like those in any peasant's house.” 

Certainly no one was aware of the ex- 
istence of the luxurious apartment which 
Chanlouineau had intended for Marie- 
Anne. He had never spoken of it, and 
had even taken the greatest precautions 
to prevent any one from seeing him 
transport the furniture. 

“How many doors are there?” inquired 
Blanche. 

, “Three; one opening into the garden, 
another into the orchard, another com- 
municating with the stables. The stair- 
case leading to the floor above is in the 
middle room. 

“And is Marie- Anne alone at the Bor- 
derie? ’ 

“Entirely alone at present; but I sup- 
pose it will not be long before her brigand 
of a brother joins her.” 

Madame Blanche fell into a reverie so 
deep and so prolonged that Chupin at 
last became impatient. 

He ventured to touch her upon the arm, 
and, in a wily voice, he said : 

“Well, what shall we decide?” 

Blanche shuddered like a wounded man 
on hearing the terrible click of the sur- 
geon's instruments. 

“My mind is not yet made up.” she re- 
plied. “I must reflect — I will see.” 

And remarking the old poacher’s dis- 
contented face, she said, vehemently : 

“I will do nothing lightly. Do not 
lose sight of Martial. If he goes to the 
Borderie, and he wi 1 go there, I must be 
informed of it. If he writes, and he will 
write, try to procure one of his letters. 
I must see you every other day. Do not 
rest ! Strive to deserve the good place I 
am reserving for you at Courtornieu. 
Go!” 

He departed without a word, but also 
without attempting to conceal his disap- 
pointment and chagrin. 

“It serves you right for listening to a 
silly, affected woman,” he growled. “She 
fills the air with her ravings ; she wishes to 
1 ill everybody, to burn and destroy every- 
thing. She only asks for an opportunity. 
The occasion presents itself, and her 
heart fails her. She draws back— she is 


he had observed was the instinctive revolt 
of the flesh, and not a faltering of her in- 
flexible will. 

Her reflections were not of a nature to 
appease her rancor. 

Whatever Chupin and all Sairmeuse 
might say to the contrary, Blanche re- 
garded this story of Marie- Anne’s travels 
as a ridiculous fable. In her opinion, 
Marie-Anne had simply emerged from 
the retreat where Martial had deemed it 
prudent to conceal her. 

But why this sudden re-appearance? 
The vindictive woman was ready to 
swear that it was out of mere bravado, 
and intended only as an insult to her. 

“And I will have my revenge,” she 
thought. “I would tear my heart out if 
it were capable of cowardly weakness 
under such provocation !” 

The voice of conscience was unheard 
in this tumult of passion. Her sufferings, 
and Jean Lacheneur’s attempt upon her 
father’s life, seemed to justify the most 
extreme measures. 

She had plenty of time now to brood 
over her wrongs, and to concoct schemes 
of vengeance. Her father no longer re- 
quired her care. He had passed from the 
frenzied ravings of insanity and delirium 
to the stupor of idiocy. 

The physician declared his patient 
cured. 

Cured ! The body was cured, perhaps, 
but reason had succumbed, All traces of 
intelligence had disappeared from this 
once mobile face, so ready to assume any 
expression which the most consummate 
hypocrisy required. 

There was no longer a sparkle in the 
eye which had formerly gleamed with 
cunning, and the lower lip hung with a 
terrible expression of stupidity. 

And there was no hope of any improve- 
ment. 

A single passion, the table, took the 
place of all the passions which had for- 
merly swayed the life of this ambitious 
man. 

The marquis, who had always been 
temperate in his habits, now ate and 
drank with the most disgusting voracity, 
and he was becoming immensely corpu- 
lent. A soulless body he wandered about 
the chateau and its surroundings without 
projects, without aim. Self-consciousness, 
all thought of dignity, knowledge of 
good and evil, memory — he had lost all 
these. Even the instinct of self-preserva- 
tion, the last which dies within us, had 
departed, and he had to be watched like 
a child. 

Often, as the marquis roamed about the 
large gardens, his daughter regarded 
him from her window with a strange 
terror in her heart. 

But this warning of Providence only 
increased her desire for revenge. 

“Who would not prefer death to such a 


afraid !” 

Chupin did Madame Blanche great in- 
justb‘° r rv>o rvi.ov i 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


259 


misfortune ?” she murmured. “Ah! Jean 
Lacheneur's revenge is far more terrible 
than it would have been had his bullet 
pierced my father’s heart. It is a revenge 
like this that I desire. It is due me ; I 
will have it !” 

She saw Chupin every two or three 
days ; sometimes going to the place of 
meeting alone, sometimes accompanied 
by Aunt Medea. 

The old poacher came punctually, al- 
though he was beginning to tire of his 
task. 

“I am risking a great deal,” he growl- 
ed. “I supposed that Jean Lacheneur 
would go and live at the Borderie with 
his sister. Then, I should be safe. But 
no ; the brigand continues to prowl 
around with his gun under his arm, and 
to sleep in the woods at night. What 
game is he hunting ? Father Chupin, of 
course. On the other hand, I know that 
my rascally inn-keeper over there has 
abandoned his inn and mysteriously dis- 
appeared. Where is he? Hidden behind 
one of these trees, perhaps, deciding in 
which portion of my body he shall plunge 
his knife.” 

What irritated the old poacher most of 
all was. that after two months of surveil- 
lance, he had arrived at the conclusion 
that, whatever might have been the rela- 
tions existing between Martial and 
Marie- Anne in the past, all was now over 
between them. 

But Blanche would not admit this. 

“Say that they are more cunning than 
you, Father Chupin.” 

“Cunning — and how? Since I have 
been watching the marquis, he has not 
once passed outside the fortifications. 
On the other hand, the postman at Sair- 
meuse, who has been adroitly questioned 
by my wife, declares that he has not 
taken a single letter to the Borderie. 5 ' 

Had it not been for the hope of a safe 
and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu,* Chu- 
pin would have abandoned his task ; and, 
in spite of the tempting rewards that 
were promised him, he had relaxed his 
surveillance. 

If he still came to the rendezvous, it 
was only because he had fallen into the 
habit of claiming some money for his ex- 
penses each time. 

And when Madame Blanche demanded 
an account of everything that Martial 
had done, he told her anything that came 
into his head. 

Madame Blanche soon discovered this. 
One day, early in September, she inter- 
rupted him as he began the same old 
story, and, looking him steadfastly in the 
eye, she said : 

“Either you are betraying me, or you 
are a fool. Yesterday Martial and Marie- 


Anne spent a quarter of an hour together 
at the Croix-d’Arcy.” 


CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

The old physician at Vigano, who had 
come to Marie- Anne’s aid, was an honor- 
able man. His intellect was of a superior 
order, and his heart was equal to his 
intelligence. He knew life ; he had loved 
and suffered, and he possessed two sub- 
lime virtues — forbearance and charity. 

It was easy for such a man to read 
Marie-Anne’s character; and while he 
was at the Borderie he endeavored in 
every possible way to reassure her, and 
to restore the self-respect of the unfortun- 
ate girl who had confided in him. 

Had he succeeded ? He certainly hoped 
so. 

But when he departed and Marie- Anne 
was again left in solitude, she could not 
overcome the feeling of despondency that 
•tole over her. 

Many, in her situation, would have re- 
gained their serenity of mind, and even 
rejoiced. Had she not succeeded in con- 
cealing her fault? Who suspected it, 
except, perhaps, the abbe? 

Hence, Marie-Anne had nothing to 
fear, and everything to hope. 

But this conviction did not appease her 
sorrow. Hers was one of those pure and 
proud natures that are more sensitive to 
the whisperings of conscience than to the 
clamors of the world. 

She had been accused of having three 
lovers ; Chanlouineau, Martial, and Mau- 
rice. The calumny had not moved her. 
What tortured her was what these people 
did not know — the truth. 

Nor was this all. The sublime instinct 
of maternity had been awakened within 
her. When she saw the physician depart, 
bearing her child, she felt as if soul and 
body were being rent asunder. When 
could she hope to see again this little son 
who was doubly dear to her by reason of 
the very sorrow and anguish he had cost 
her? The tears gushed to her eyes when 
she thought that his first smile would not 
be for her. 

Ah ! had it not been for her promise to 
Maurice, she would unhesitatingly have 
braved public opin on, and kept her 
precious child. 

Her brave and honest nature could 
have endured any humiliation far better 
than the continual lie she was forced to 
live. 

But she had promised; Maurice was 
her husband, and reason told her that for 
his sake she must preserve not her honor, 
alas ! but the semblance of honor. 

And when she thought of her brother, 
her blood froze in her veins. 

Having learned that Jean was roving* 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


m 


about the country, she sent for him ; but 
it was not without much persuasion that 
he consented to come to the Borderie.” 

It was easy to explain Chupin's terror 
when one saw Jean Lachencur. His 
clothing was literally in tatters, his face 
wore an expression of ferocious despair 
and a fierce unextinguishable hatred 
burned in his eyes. 

When he entered the cottage, Marie- 
Anne recoiled in horror. She did not 
recognize him until he spoke. 

“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily. 

“You — my poor Jean ! you !” 

He surveyed himself from head to 
foot, and said, with a sneering laugh : 

“Really I should not like to meet my- 
self at dusk in the forest.” 

Marie-Anne shuddered. She fanciec 
that a threat lurked beneath these ironi- 
cal words, beneath this mockery of him- 
self. 

“What a life yours must be, my poor 
brother ! Why did you not come sooner? 
Now, I have you hei*e, I shall not let you 
g • You will not desert me. I neec 
protection and love so much. You wil 
remain with me?” 

“It is impossible, Marie-Anne.” 

“And why?” 

A fleeting crimson suffused Jean La- 
cheneur’s cheek ; he hesitated for a mo- 
ment, then: 

“Because I have a right to dispose of 
my own life, but not of yours,” he re- 
plied. “We can no longer be anything 
to each other. I deny you to-day, that 
you may be able to deny me to-morrow 
Yes, I renounce you, who are my all— 
the only person bn earth whom I love. 
Your most cruel enemies have not calum- 
niated you more foully than I ” 

He paused an instant, then he added : 

“•I have said openly, before numerous 
witnesses, that I would never set foot in 
a house that had been given you by 
Chanlouineau.” 

“Jean! you, my brother! said that?" 

“I said it. It must be supposed that 
there is a deadly feud between us. This 
must be, in order that neither you nor 
Maurice d*Escorval can be accused of 
complicity in any deed of mine.” 

Marie-Anne stood as if petrified. 

“He is mad!” she murmured. 

“Do I really have that appearance?” 

She shook off the stupor that par- 
alyzed her, and seizing her brother’s 
hands : 

‘What do you intend to do?” she ex 
claimed. “What do you intend to do? 
Tell me ; I will know.” 

“Nothing! let me alone.” 

“Jean!” 

“Let me alone,” he said roughly, dis- 
engaging himself. 

A horrible presentiment crossed Marie- 
Anne's mind. 


She stepped back, and solemnly, en- 
treatingly, she said : 

“Take care, take care, my brother. It 
is not well to tamper with these matters. 
Leave to God’s justice the task of punish- 
ing those who have wronged us.” 

But nothing could move Jean Lache- 
neur, or divert him from his purpose. 
He uttered a hoarse, discordant laugh, 
then striking his gun heavily with his 
hand, he exclaimed : 

“Here is iustice!” 

Appalled and distressed beyond meas- 
ure, Marie-Anne sank into a chair. She 
discerned in her brother’s mind the same 
fixed, fatal idea which had lured her 
father on to destruction — the idea for 
which he had sacrificed all — family, 
friends, fortune, the present and the fu- 
ture — even his daughter’s honor — the idea 
which had caused so much blood to flow, 
which had cost the life of so many 
innocent men, and which had finally coi - 
ducted him to the scaffold. 

“Jean,” she murmured, “remember 
our father.” 

The young man’s face became livid ; 
his hands clenched involuntarily, but he 
controlled his anger. 

Advancing toward his sister, in a cold 
quiet tone that added a frightful violence 
to his threats, he said : 

“It is because I remember my father 
that justice shall be done. Ah! these 
miserable nobles would not display such 
audacity if all sons ha 1 my resolution. 
A scoundrel would hesitate before attack- 
ing a good man if he was obliged to say 
to himself : T cannot strike this honest 
man. for though he die, his children will 
surely call me to account. Their fury 
will fall on me and mine ; they will pur- 
sue us sleeping and waking, pursue us 
without ceasing, everywhere, and piti- 
lessly. Their hatred always on the alert, 
will accompany us and surround us. It 
will be an implacable, merciless warfare. 

1 shall never venture forth without fear- 
ing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my 
lips without dread of poison. And until 
we have succumbed, they will prowl about 
our house, trying to slip in through tini- 
est opening death, dishonor, ruin, infamy 
and misery !’ ” 

He paused with a nervous laugh, and 
then, still more slowly, he added : 

That is what the Sairmeuse and Cour- 
tomieu have to expect from me.” 

It was impossible to mistake the mean- 
ing of Jean Laeheneur's words. His 
threats were not the wild ravings of an- 
ger. His quiet manner, his icy tones, 
lis automatic gestures betrayed one of 
those cold rages which endure so long as 
the man lives. 

He took good care to make himself 
understood, for between his teeth, he 
added: 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


261 


t “Undoubtedly, these people are very 
high, and I am very low ; but when a tiny 
worm fastens itself to the roots of a 
giant oak, that tree is doomed. 

Marie-Anne knew all too well the use- 
lessness of prayers and entreaties. 

And yet she could not, she must not 
allow her brother to depart in this mood. 

She fell upon her knees, and with 
clasped hands and supplicating voice : 

“Jean,” said she. “I implore you to 
renounce these projects. In the name of 
our mother, return to your better self. 
These are crimes which you are medi- 
tating !” 

With a glance of scorn and a shrug of 
the shouluers, he replied: 

“Have done with this. I was wrong to 
confide my hopes to you. Do not make 
me regret that I came here.” 

Then the sister tried another plan. She 
rose, forced her lips to smile, and as if 
nothing unpleasant had passed between 
them, she begged Jean to remain with 
her that evening, at least, and share her 
frugal supper. 

“Remain,” she entreated; “that is not 
much to do — and it will make me so 
happy. And since it will be the last time 
we shall see each other for years, grant 
me a few hours. It is so long since we 
have met. I have suffered so much. I 
have so many things to tell you ! Jean, 
my dear brother, can it be that you love 
me no longer?” 

One must have been bronze to remain 
insensible to such prayers. Jean Lache- 
neur's heart swelled almost to bursting; 
his stern features relaxed, and a tear 
trembled in his eye. 

Marie-Anne saw that tear. She thought 
she had conquered, and clapping her 
hands in delight, she exc aimed: 

“Ah! you will remain! you will re- 
main!” 

No. Jean had already mastered his 
momentary weakness, though not with- 
out a terrible effort ; and in a harsh voice : 

“Impossible ! impossible !” he repealed. 

Then, as his sister clung to him implor- 
ingly, he took her in "his arms and 
pressed her to his he -rt. 

“Poor sister — po r Marie-Anne — you 
will never know what it costs me to re- 
fuse you, to separate myself from you. 
But this must be. In even coming here, 
I have been guilty of an imprudent act. 
You do not understand to what perils 
you will be e posed if people suspect any 
bond between us. I trust you and Maurice 
may lead a calm and happy life. It would 
be a crime for me to mix you up with my 
wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, 
bu do not try to see me, or even to learn 
what has become of me. A man like me 
struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” 

He kiss d Marie-Anne passionately, 
then lif ted her, placed her in a chair, and 
fre d himself from her detaining ha . ds. 


“Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me 
again, our father will be avenged! ’ 

She sprang up to rush after him and to 
call him back — too late! 

He had fled. 

“It is over,” murmured the wretched 
girl; “my brother is lost, Nothing will 
restrain him now.” 

A vague, inexplicable, but horrible 
fear, contracted her heart. She felt that 
she was being slowly but surely drawn 
into a whirlpool of passion, rancor, ven- 
geance, and crime, and a voice whispered 
that she would be crushed. 

But other thoughts soon replaced these 
gloomy presentiments. 

One evening, while she was preparing 
her little table, she heard a rustling 
sound at the door. She turned and look- 
ed : some one had slipped a letter under 
the door. 

Courageously, and without an instant’s 
hesitation, she sprang to the door and 
opened it. No one was there! 

The night was dark, and she could dis- 
tinguish nothing in the gloom without. 
She listened ; not a sound broke the still- 
ness. 

Agitated and trembling she picked up 
the letter, approached the light, and 
looked at the address. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she ex- 
claimed, in amazement. 

She recognized Martial's hand-writing. 
So he had written to her ! He had dared 
to write to her ! 

Her first impulse was to burn the letter ; 
she held it to the flame, then the thougtit 
of her friends concealed at Father Poig- 
not’s farm made her withdraw it. 

“For their sake,” she thought, “I must 
read it.” 

She broke the seal with the arms of 
the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon 
it, and read : 

“My dear Marie-Anne— Perhaps you 
have suspected who it is that has given 
an entirely new, and certainly surprising, 
direction to events. 

“Perhaps you have also understood the 
motives that guided him. In that case 
I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you 
cannot refuse me your friendship and 
your esteem. 

“But my work of reparation is not yet 
accomplished. I have prepared every- 
thing for a revision of the judgment 
that condemned Baron d'Escorval to 
death, or for procuring a pardon. 

“You must know where the baron is 
concealed. Acquaint him with my plans 
and ascertain whether he prefers a revis- 
ion of judgment, or a simple pardon. 

“If he desires a new trial, I will give 
him a letter of license from the king. 

“I await your reply before acting. 

“Martial de Sairmeuse.” 


262 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


Marie-Anne's head whirled. 

This was the second time that Martial 
had astonished her by the grandeur of 
his passion. 

How noble the two men who had loved 
her and whom she had rejected, had 
proved themselves to be. 

One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her 
sake, protected her still. 

Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the 
convictions of his life and the prejudice 
of his race for her sake; and, with a 
noble recklessness, hazarded for her the 
political fortunes of his house. 

And yet the man whom she had chosen, 
the father of her child, Maurice d’Escor- 
val, had not given a sign of life since he 
quitted her, five months before. 

But suddenly and without reason, 
Mari e-Anne passed from the most pro- 
found adm ration to the deepest dis rust. 

“What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” 
This was the suspicion that darted through 
her mind. 

“Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de 
Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were 
sincere !” 

And she did not wish him to be a hero. 

The result of these suspicions was that 
she hesitated five days before repairing 
to the rendezvous where Father Poignot 
usually awaited her. 

When she did go, she found, not the 
worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who 
had been greatly alarmed by her long 
absence. 

It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortun- 
ately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. 

The abbe made her repeat it twice, the 
second time very slowly, and when she 
had concluded : 

“This young man,” said the priest, 
“has the voice and the prejudices of his 
rank and of his education ; but his heart 
is noble and generous,” 

And when Marie-Anne disclosed her 
suspicions : 

“You are wrong, my child,” said he : 
“the marquis is certainly sincere. It 
would be wrong not to take advantage 
of his generosity. Such, at least, is my 
opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I 
will consult the baron, and to-morrow I 
will tell you our decision.” 

The abbe was awaiting her with 
feverish impatience on the same spot, 
when she rejoined him twenty-four hours 
later. 

“M. d'Escorval agrees with me that 
we must trust ourselves to the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being 
innocent, cannot, will not, accept a par- 
don. He demands a revision of the 
iniquitous judgment which condemned 
him.” 

Although she must have foreseen this 
determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupe- 
fied. 

“What!” said she. “M. d'Escorval 


will give himself up to his enemies! 
Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse prom- 
ise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct 
from the king?” 

“Yes.” 

She could find no objection, so in a 
submissive tone, she said : 

“In this case, monsieur, I must ask 
you for a rough draft of the letter I am 
to write to the marquis.” 

The priest did not reply for a moment. 
It was evident that he felt some misgiv- 
ings. At last, summoning all his cour- 
age, he said : 

“It would be better not to write.” 

“But ” 

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, 
not by any means, but a letter is danger- 
ous ; it does not always reach the person 
to whom it is addressed. You must see 
M. de Sairmeuse,” 

Marie-Anne recoiled in horror. 

“Never ! never !” she exclaimed. 

The abbe did not seem surprised. 

“I understand your repugnance, my 
child,” he said, gently; “your reputa- 
tion has suffered greatly through the 
attentions of the marquis.” 

“Oh! sir, I entreat you.” 

“But one should not hesitate, my child, 
when duty speaks. You owe this sacri- 
fice to an innocent man who has been 
ruined through your father.” 

He explained to her all that she must 
say, and did not leave her until she had 
promised to see the marquis in person. 
But the cause of her repugnance was 
not what the abbe supposed. Her repu- 
tation! Alas! she knew that was lost 
forever. No, it was not that. 

A fortnight before she would not have 
been disquieted by the prospect of this 
interview. Then, though she no longer 
hated Martial, he was perfectly indiffer- 
ent to her, while now . 

Perhaps in choosing the Croix-d’Arcy 
for the place of meeting, she hoped that 
this spot, haunted by so many cruel mem- 
ories, would restore her former aversion. 

On pursuing the path leading to the 
place of rendezvous, she said to herself 
that Martial would undoubtedly wound 
her by the tone of careless gallantry 
which was habitual to him. 

But in this she was mistaken. Martial 
was greatly agitated, but he did not utter 
a word that was not connected with the 
baron. 

It was only when the conference was 
ended, and he had consented to all the 
conditions, that he said, sadly : 

“We are friends, are we not?” 

In an almost inaudible voice she an- 
swered : 

“Yes.” 

And that was all. He remounted his 
horse which had been held by a servant, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


263 


and departed in the direction of Mon- 
taignac. 

Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie- 
Anne watched him as he disappeared; 
and then her inmost heart was revealed 
as by a lightning flash. 

“Mon Dieu ! wretch that I am !” she 
exclaimed. “Do I not love? — is it possi- 
ble that I could ever love any other 
than Maurice, my husband, the father of 
my child?” 

Her voice was still trembling with 
emotion when she recounted the details 
of the interview to the abbe. But he did 
not perceive it. He was thinking only 
of the baron. 

“I was sure that Martial would say 
“amen,” to everything; I was so certain 
of it that I have made all the arrange- 
ments for the baron to leave the farm. 
He will await, at your house, a safe-con- 
duct from his majesty. 

“The close air and the heat of the loft 
are retarding the baron’s recovery,” the 
abbe pursued, “so be prepared for his 
coming to-morrow evening. One of the 
Poignot boys will bring over all our bag- 
gage. About eleven o'clock we will put 
M. d’Escorval in a carriage; and we will 
all sup together at the Borderie.” 

“ Heaven comes to my aid!” thought 
Marie- Anne as she walked homeward. 

She thought that she would no longer 
be alone, that Mme. d'Escorval would be 
with her to talk to her of Maurice, and 
that all the friends who would surround 
her would aid her in driving away the 
thoughts of Martial, which haunted her. 

So the next day she was more cheerful 
than she had been for months, and once, 
while putting her little house in order, 
she was surprised to find herself singing 
at her work. 

Eight o'clock was sounding when she 
heard a peculiar whistle. 

It was the signal of the younger Poig- 
not. who came bringing an arm-chair for 
the sick man, the abbe’s box of medi- 
cines, and a bag of books. 

These articles Marie- Anne deposited in 
the room which Chanlouineau had adorn- 
ed for her, and which she intended for 
the baron. After arranging them to her 
satisfaction she went out to meet young 
Poignot, who had told her that he would 
soon return with other articles. 

The night was very dark, and Marie- 
Anne, as she hastened on, did not notice 
two motionless figures in the shadow of a 
clump of lilacs in her little garden. 


CHAPTER LXXXYIII 

Detected by Madame Blanche m a pal- 
pable falsehood, Chupin was quite crest- 
fallen for a moment. 

He saw the pleasing vision of a retreat 


at Courtornieu vanish; he saw himself 
suddenly deprived of frequent gifts 
which permitted him to spare his hoard- 
ed treasure, and even to increase it. 

But he soon regained his assurance, 
and with an affectation of frankness he 
said : 

“I may be stupid, but I could not de- 
ceive an infant. Some one must have 
told you falsely.” 

Mme. Blanche shrugged her shoulders. 

“I obtained my information from two 
persons, who were ignorant of the inter- 
est it would possess for me.” 

“As truly as the sun is in the heavens 
I swear ” 

“Do not swear; simply confess that 
you have been wanting in zeal.” 

The young lady’s manner betrayed 
such positive certainty that Chup n ceased 
his denials and changed his tactics. 

With the most abject humility, he ad- 
mitted that the evening before he had re- 
laxed his surveillance ; he had been very 
busy; one of his boys had injured his 
foot; then he had encountered some 
friends who persuade l him to enter a 
drinking-saloon, where he had taken 
more than usual, so that . 

He told this story in a whining tone, 
and every moment he interrupted him- 
self to affirm his repentance and to cover 
himself with reproaches. 

“Old drunkard!” he said, “this will 
teach you ” 

But these protestations, far from reas- 
suring Madame Blanche, made her still 
more suspicious. 

“All this is very well, Father Chupin,” 
she said, dryly, “but what are you going 
to do now to repair your negligence?” 

“What do I intend to do?” he ex- 
claimed, feigning the most violent anger. 
**Oh! you will see. I will prove that no 
one can deceive me with impunity. Near 
the Borderie is a small grove. I shall 
station myself there ; and may the devil 
seize me if a cat enters that house unbe- 
known to me.” 

Mme. Blanche drew her purse from her 
pocket, and taking out three louis, she 
gave them to Chupin, saying: 

“Take these, and be more careful in 
future. Another blunder like this, and I 
shall be compelled to ask the aid of some 
other person.” 

The old poacher went away, whistling, 
quite reassured; but he was wrong. 
The lady’s generosity was only intended 
to allay his suspicions. 

And why should she not suppose he 
had betrayed her — this miserable wretch, 
who made it his business t > betray 
others? What reason had she for plac- 
ing any confidence in his reports? She 
paid him ! Others, by paying him more, 
would certainly have the preference ! 

But how could she ascertain what she 
wished to know? Ah! she saw but one 


264 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


way — a very disagreeable, but a sure 
way. She, herself, would play the spy. 

This idea took such possession of her 
mind that, after dinner was concluded, 
and twilight had enveloped the earth in a 
mantle of gray, she summoned Aunt 
Medea. 

“Get your cloak, quickly, aunt,” she 
commanded. “I am going for a walk 
and you must accompany me.” 

Aunt Medea ext nded her hand to the 
bell-r »pe, but her niece stopped her. 

“You will dispense with the services of 
your maid,” said she. “I do not wish 
any one in the chateau to know that we 
have gone out.” 

“Are we going alone?” 

“Alone.” 

“Alone, and on foot, at night ” 

“I am in a hurry, aunt,” interrupted 
Blanche, “and I am waiting for you.” 

In the twinkling of an e.) e Aunt Medea 
was ready. 

The marquis had just been put to bed. 
the servants were at dinner, and Blanche 
and Aunt Medea reached the little gate 
leading from the g rden into the open 
fields without being observed. 

“Good heavens ! Where are we going?” 
groaned Aunt Medea. 

“What is that to you? Come !” 

Madame Blanche was going to the 
Borderie. 

She could have followed the banks of 
the Oiselle, but she preferred to cut 
across the fields, thinking she would be 
less likely to meet some one. 

The n ; ght was st.l', but very dark, and 
the progress of th j two women was often 
retarded by hedges and ditches. Twice 
Blanche lost her way. Again and again, 
Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough 
ground, and brtiised herself against the 
stones; she groaned, she almost wept, 
but her terrible niece was pitiless. 

“Come!” she said, “or I will leave you 
to find your way as best you can.” 

And the poor dependent struggled on. 

At last, after a tramp of more than ; n 
hour, Blanche ventured to breathe. She 
recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she 
paused in the little grove of which Chupin 
had spoken. 

“Are we at our journey’s end?” in- 
quired Aunt Medea, timidly. 

“Yes, but be quiet. Remain where 
you are, I wish to look about a little.” 

“What! you are leaving me alone? 
Blanche, I entreat you ! What are you 
going to do? Mon Dieu! you frighten 
me. I am afraid, Blanche !” 

But her niece had gone. She was ex- 
ploring the grove, seeking Chupin. She 
did not find him. 

“I knew the wretch was deceiving me,” 
she muttered through her set teeth. 
“Who knows but Martial and Marie- Anne 
are there in that house now, mocking me, 
and laughing at my credulity?” 


She rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she 
found half dead with fright, and both 
advanced to the edge of the woods, which 
commanded a view of the front of the 
house. 

A flickering, crimson light gleamed 
through two windows in the second 
story. Evidently there was a fire in the 
room. 

“That is right,” murmured Blanche, 
bitterly; “Martial is such a chilly per- 
son !” 

She was about to approach the house, 
when a peculiar whistle rooted her to the 
spot. 

She looked about her, and, in spite of 
the darkness, she discerned in the foot- 
path leading to the Borderie, a man laden 
with articles which she could not distin- 
guish. 

Almost immediately a woman, cer- 
tainly Marie-Anne, left the house and 
advanced to meet him. 

They exchanged a few words and then 
walked together to the house. Soon af- 
ter the man emerged without his burden 
and went away. 

“What does this mean?” murmured 
Mme. Blanche. 

She waited patiently for more than 
half an hour, and as nothing stirred : 

“Let us go nearer,” she said to Aunt 
Medea, “I "wish to look through the win- 
dows.” 

They were approaching the house when, 
just as they reached the little garden, 
the door of the cottage opened so sud- 
denly that they had scarcely time to con- 
ceal themselves in a clump of lilac-bushes. 

Marie-Anne came out, imprudently 
leaving the key in the door, passed down 
the narrow path, gained the road, and 
disappeared. 

Blanche pressed Aunt Medea's arm 
with a violence that made her cry out. 

“Wait for me here,” she said, in a 
strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever 
happens, whatever you hear, if you wish 
to finish your days at Courtornieu, not 
a word ! Do not stir from this spot ; I 
will return.” 

And she entered the cottage. 

Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a 
c mdle burning on the table in the front 
room. 

Blanche seized it and boldly began an 
exploration of the dwelling. 

She had gone over the arrangement of 
the Borderie so often in her own mind 
that the rooms seemed familiar to her — 
she seemed to recognize them. 

In spite of Chupin’s description the 
poverty of this humble abode astonished 
her. There was no floor save the ground ; 
the walls were poorly whitewashed; all 
kinds of grain and bunches of herbs hun*- 
suspended from the ceiling; a few heavy 
tables, wooden benches, and clumsy 
chairs constituted the entire furniture. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


265 


Marie-Anne evidently occupied the 
back room. It was the only apartment 
that contained a bed. This Was one of 
those immense country affairs, very high 
and broad, with tall fluted posts, draped 
with green serge curtains, sliding back 
and forth on iron rings. 

At the head of the bed, fastened to the 
wall, hung a receptacle for holy water. 
Blanche dipped her finger in the bowl ; 
it was full to the brim. 

Beside the window was a wooden shelf 
supported by a hook, and on the shelf 
stood a basin and bowl of the commonest 
earthenware. 

“It must be confessed that my husband 
does not provide a very sumptuous abode 
for his idol,” said Madame Blanche, with 
a sneer. 

She was almost on the p-fint of asking 
herself if jealousy had not led her astray. 

She remembered Martial’s fastidious 
tastes, and she did not know how to 
reconcile them with these meagre sur- 
roundings. Then, there was the holy 
water ! 

But her suspicions became stronger 
when she entered the kitchen. Some 
savory compound was bubbling in a pot 
over the fire, and several saucepans, in 
which fragrant stews were simmering, 
stood among the warm ashes. 

“All this cannot be for her,” murmured 
Blan he. 

Then she remembered the two windows 
in the story above which she had seen il- 
luminated by the trembling glow of the 
fire-light. 

“I must examine the rooms above,” 
she thought. 

The staircase led up from the middle of 
the room; she knew this. She quickly 
ascended the stairs, pushed open a door, 
and could not repress a cry of surprise 
and rage. 

She found herself in the sumptuously 
appointed room which Chanlouineau had 
made the sanctuary of his great love, and 
upon which he had lavished, with the 
fanaticism of passion, all that was costly 
and luxu ious. 

“Then it is true !” exclaimed Blanche. 
“And I thought just now that all was too 
meagre and too poor! Miserable dupe 
that I am ! Below, all is arranged for 
the eyes of comers and goers. Here, 
everything is intended exclusively for 
themselves. Now, I recognize Martial’s 
astonishing talent f >r dissimulation. He 
loves this vile creature so much that he is 
anxious in regard to her reputation ; he 
keeps his visits to her a secret, and this 
is the hidden paradise of their love. Here 
they laugh at me. the poor forsaken wife, 
whose marriage was but a mockery.” 

She had desired to know the truth; 
certainty was less terrible to endure than 
this constant suspicion. And. as if she 
found a little enjoyment in proving the 


extent of Martial's love for a hated rival, 
she took an inventory, as it were, of the 
magnificent appointments of the cham- 
ber, feeling the heavy brocaded silk stuff 
that formed the curtains, and testing the 
thickness of the rich carpet with her foot. 

Exery thing indicated that Marie-Anne 
was expecting some one ; the bright fire, 
the large arm-chair placed before the 
hearth, the embroidered slippers lying 
beside the chair. 

And whom could she expect save Mar- 
tial? The person who had been there a 
few moments before probably came to 
announce the arrival of her lover, and she 
had gone out to meet him. 

For a trifling circumstance would seem 
to indicate that this messenger had not 
been expected. 

Upon the hearth stood a bowl of still 
smoking bouillon. 

It was evident that Marie-Anne was on 
the point of drinking this when she heard 
the signa 1 . 

Madame Blanche was wondering how 
she could profit by her discovery, when 
her eyes fell upon a large oaken box 
standing open upon a table near tin*, glass 
door leading into the dressing-room, and 
filled with tiny boxes and vials. 

Mechanically she approached it, and 
among the bottles she saw two of blue 
glass, upon which the word “poison” was 
inscribed. 

“Poison !” Blanche could not turn her 
eyes from this word, which seemed to ex- 
ert a kind of fascination over her. 

A diabolical inspiration associated the 
contents of these vials with the bowl 
standing upon the mantel. 

“And why not?” she murmured. “I 
could escape afterward.” 

A terrible thought made her pause. 
Martial would return with Marie-Anne; 
who could say that it would not be he 
who would drink the contents of the 
bowl. 

“God shall decide!” she murmured 
“It is better one's husband should be dead 
than belong to another !” 

And with a firm hand, she took up one 
of the vials. 

Since her entrance into the cottage 
Blanche had scarcely been conscious of 
her acts. Hatred and despair had clouded 
her brain like fumes of alcohol. 

But when her hand came in contact 
with the glass containing the deadly drug, 
the terrible shock dissipated hei bewilder- 
ment ; she regained the full possession of 
her faculties ; the power of calm delibera- 
tion returned. 

This is proved by the fact that her first 
thought was this : 

“I am ignorant even of the name of the 
poison which I hold. What dose must I 
administer, much or little?” 

She opened the vial, not without consid- 
erable difficulty, and poured a few grains 


2G6 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of its contents into the palm of her hand. 
It was a fine, white powder, glistening 
like pulverized glass, and looking not un- 
like sugar. 

“Can it really be sugar?” she thought. 

Resolved to ascertain, she moistened 
the tip of her finger, and collected upon it 
a few atoms of the powder which she 
placed upon her tongue. 

The taste was like that of an extremely 
acid apple. 

Without hesitation, without remorse, 
without even turning pale, she poured 
into the bowl the entire contents of the 
vial. 

Her self-possession was so perfect, she 
even recollected that the powder might 
be slow in dissolving, and she stirred it 
gently for a moment or more. 

Having done this — she seemed to think 
of everything — she tasted the bouillon. 
She noticed a slightly bitter taste, but it 
was not sufficiently perceptible to awaken 
distrust. 

Now Madame Blanche breathed freely. 
If she could succeed in making her escape 
she was avenged. 

She was going toward the door when a 
sound on the stairs startled her. 

Two persons were ascending the stair- 
case. 

Where should she go? where could 
she conceal herself ? 

She was now so sure she would be 
detected that she almost decided to 
throw the bowl into the fire, and then 
boldly face the intruders. 

But no — a chance remained — she darted 
into the dressing-room. She dared not 
close the door; the least click of the 
latch would have betrayed her. 

Marie-Anne entered the chamber, fol- 
lowed by a peasant, bearing a large bun- 
dle. 

“Ah! here is my candle!” she 
exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold. 
“Joy must be making me lose my wits ! 
I could have sworn that I left it on the 
table down-stairs.” 

Blanche shuddered. She had not 
thought of this circumstance. 

“Where shall I put this clothing?” 
asked the young peasant. 

“Lay it down here. I will arrange the 
articles by and by,” replied Marie-Anne. 

The boy dropped his heavy burden 
with a sigh of relief. 

“This is the last,” he exclaimed, 
“Now, our gentleman can come.” 

“At what hour will he start?” inquired 
Marie-Anne. 

“At eleven o’clock. It will be nearly 
midnight when he gets here.” 

Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent 
clock on the mantel. 

“I have still three hours before me,” 
said she ; “more time than I shall need. 
Supper is ready ; I am going to set the 


table here, by the fire. Tell him to 
bring a good appetite.” 

“I will tell him, and many thanks, 
mademoiselle, for having come to meet 
me and aid me with my second load. It 
was not so very heavy, but it was clumsy 
to handle.” 

“Will you not accept a glass of wine?” 

“No, thank you. I must hasten back. 
Au revoir , Mademoiselle Lacheneur.” 

“Aw revoir, Poignot.” 

This name Poignot had no significance 
in the ears of Blanche. 

“Ah! had she heard M. d’Escorval's 
or the abbe's name mentioned, she might 
have felt some doubt of Marie-Anne’s 
guilt ; her resolution might have wavered, 
and — who knows?” 

But no. Young Poignot. in referring 
to the baron had said : “our gentleman,” 
Marie-Anne, said: “he.” 

Is not “he” always the person who is 
uppermost in our minds, the husband 
whom one hates or the lover whom one 
adores ? 

“Our gentleman!” “he!” Blanche 
translated Martial. 

Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse 
who was to arrive at midnight. She was 
sure of it. It was he who had been pre- 
ceded by a messenger bearing clothing. 
This could only mean that he was about 
to establish himself at the Borderie. 
Perhaps he would cast aside all secrecy 
and live there openly, regardless of his 
rank, of his dignity, and of his duties ; 
forgetful even of his prejudices. 

These conjectures inflamed her fury 
still more. 

Why should she hesitate or tremble 
after that. 

Her only dread now, was lest she 
should be discovered. 

Aunt Medea was, it is true, in th«» gar- 
den ; but after the orders she had 
received the poor woman would remain 
motionless as stone behind the clump of 
lilacs, the entire night if necessary. 

For two hours and a half Marie-Anne 
would be alone at the Borderie. Blanche 
reflected that this would give her ample 
time to watch the efiects of the poison 
upon her hated rival. 

When the crime was discovered she 
would be far away. No one knew she 
had been absent from Courtornieu; no 
one had seen her leave the chateau; 
Aunt Medea would be as silent as the 
grave. And besides, who would dare to 
accuse her, Marquise de Sairmeuse nee 
Blanche de Courtornieu, of being the 
murderer? 

“But she does not drink it !” Blanche 
thought. 

Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the 
bouillon entirelv. She had opened ihe 
bundle of clothing, and was busily ar- 
ranging the articles in a wardrobe near 
the bed. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


267 


Who talks of presentiments ! She was 
as gay and vivacious as in her days of 
happiness ; and as she worked, she 
hummed an air that Maurice had often 
sung. 

She felt that her troubles were nearly 
over ; her friends would soon be around 
her. 

When her task of putting away the 
clothing was completed and the wardrobe 
closed, she drew a small table up before 
the fire. 

Not until then did she notice the bowl 
standing upon the mantel. 

“Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and 
taking the bowl she raised it to her lips. 

From her hiding-place Blanche had 
heard Marie- Anne's exclamation; she 
saw the movement, and yet not the 
slightest remorse struck her soul. 

Marie- Anne drank but one mouthful, 
then, in evident disgust, set the bowl 
down. 

A horrible dread made the watcher’s 
heart stand still. 

“Does she notice a peculiar taste in the 
bouillon ?” she thought. 

No; but it had grown cold, and a 
slight coating of grease had formed over 
the top. Marie-Anne took the spoon, 
skimmed the bouillon , and then stirred it 
up for some time, to divide the greasy 
particles. 

After she had done this she drank the 
liquid, put the bowl back upon the man- 
tel, and resumed her work. 

It was done. The denouement no lon- 
ger depended upon Blanche de Courtor- 
nieu’s will. Come what would, she was 
a murderess. 

But though she was conscious of her 
crime, the excess of her hatred prevent- 
ed her from realizing its enormity. She 
said to herself that it was only an act of 
justice which she had accomplished; 
that the vengeance she had taken was 
not proportionate to the offense, and that 
nothing could atone for the torture she 
had endured. 

But in a few moments a sinister appre- 
hension took possession of her mind. 

Her knowledge of the effects of poison 
was extremely limited. She had expect- 
ed to see Marie-Anne fall dead before 
her, as if stricken down by a thunder- 
bolt. 

But no. The moments slipped by, and 
Marie-Anne continued her preparations 
for supper as if nothing had occurred. 

She spread a white cloth over the table, 
smoothed it with her hands, and placed a 
dish upon it. 

“What if she should, come in here!” 
thought Blanche. 

The fear of punishment which jjre- 
cedes remorse, made her heart beat with 
such violence that she could not under- 
stand why its th robbings were not heard 
in the adjoining room. Her terror in- 


creased when she saw Marie-Anne take 
the light and go down-stairs. Blanche 
was left alone. The thought of making 
her escape occurred to her ; but how, and 
by what way could she leave the house 
without being seen. 

“It must be that poison does not work !” 
she said, in a rage. 

Alas ! no. She knew better when 
Marie-Anne reappeared. 

In the few moments she had spent be- 
low, her features had become frightfully 
changed. Her face was livid and mottled 
with purple spots, her eyes were disten- 
ded and glittered with a strange bril- 
liancy. She let the plates which she held 
fa 1 upon the table with a crash. 

“The poison! it begins!” thought 
Blanche. 

Marie-Anne stood on the hearth, gazing 
wildly around her, as if seeking the 
cause of her incomprehensible suffering. 
She passed and repassed her hand across 
her forehead, which was bathed in a cold 
perspiration ; she gasped for breath. 
Then suddenly, overcome with nausea, 
she staggered, pressed her hands convul- 
sively upon her breast, and sank into 
the arm-chair, crying : 

“Oh, God! how I suffer!” 


CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

Kneeling by the half-open door, 
Blanche eagerly watched the workings of 
the poison which she had administered. 

She was so near her victim that she 
could distinguish the throbbing of her 
temples, and sometimes she fancied she 
could feel upon her cheek her rival’s 
breath, which scorched like flame. 

An utter prostration followed Marie- 
Anne's paroxysm of agony. One would 
have supposed her dead had it not been 
for the convulsive workings of the jaws 
and her labored breathing. 

But soon the nausea returned, and she 
was seized with vomiting. Each effort 
to relieve seemed to wrench her whole 
body ; and gradually a ghastly tint crept 
over her face, the spots upon her cheeks 
became more pronounced in tint, her 
eyes appeared ready to burst from their 
sockets, and great drops of perspiration 
rolled down her cheeks. 

Her sufferings must have been intoler- 
able. She moaned feebly at times, and 
occasionally rendered heart-rending 
shrieks. Then she faltered fragmentary 
sentences; she begged piteously for 
water or entreated God to shorten her 
torture. 

“Ah, it is horrible ! I suffer too much ! 
Death ! My God ! grant me death !” 

She invoked all the friends she had 
ever known, calling for aid in a despair- 
ing voice. 


2G8 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


She called Mme. d’Escorval, the abbe, 
Maurice, her brother, Chanlouineau, 
Martial ! 

Martial f — this name was more than 
sufficient to extinguish all pity in the 
heart of Madame Blanche. 

“Go on! call your lover, call!” she 
said to herself, bitterly. “He will come 
too late.” 

And as Marie-Anne repeated the name, 
in a tone of agonized entreaty : 

“Suffer!” continued Mme. Blanche, 
“suffer, you who have inspired Martial 
with the odious courage to forsake me, 
his wife, as a drunken lack y would 
abandon the lowest of degraded crea- 
tures ! Die, and my husband will return 
to me repentant.” 

No, she had no pity. She felt a diffi- 
culty in breathing, but that resulted sim- 
ply from the instinctive horror which the 
sufferings of others inspire — an entirely 
different physical impression, which is 
adorned with the fine name of sensibility, 
but which is, in reality, the grossest 
selfishness. 

And yet, Marie-Anne was perceptib’y 
sinking. Soon she had not strength even 
to moan ; her eyes closed, and after a 
spasm which brought a bloody foam to 
her lips, her head sank back, and she lay 
motionless. 

“It is over,” murmured Blanche. 

She rose, but her limbs trembled so 
that she could scarcely stand. 

Her heart remained firm and implac- 
able ; but the flesh failed. 

Never had she imagined a scene like 
that which she had just witnessed. She 
knew that poison caused death; she had 
not suspected the agony of that death. 

She no longer thought of augmenting 
Marie-Anne’s sufferings by upbraiding 
her. Her only desire now was to leave 
this house, whose very floor seemed to 
scorch her feet. 

A strange, inexplicable sensation crept 
over her ; it was not yet fright, it was the 
stupor that follows the commission of a 
terrible crime — the stupor of the mur- 
derer. 

Still, she compelled herself to wait a 
few moments longer; then seeing that 
Marie-Anne still remained motionless 
and with closed e 3 r es, she ventured to 
softly, open the door and to enter the 
room in which her victim wns lying. \ 

But she had not advanced three steps 
before Marie-x\nne suddenly, and as if 
.she had been galvanized by an electric 
battery, rose and extended her arms to 
bar her enemy’s passage. 

This movement was so unexpected and 
so frightful that Mme. Blanche recoiled. 

“The Marquise de Sairmeuse,” faltered 
Marie-Anne “You, Blanche— here !” 

And her suffering, explained by the 
presence of this young girl who once had 


been her friend, but who was now her 
bitterest enemy, she exclaimed: 

“You are my murderer !” 

Blanche de Courtornieu’s was one of 
those iron natures that break, but never 
bend. 

Since she had been discovered, noth'ng 
in the world would induce her to deny 
her guilt. 

She advanced resolutely, and in a firm 
voice : 

“Yes,” she said, “I have taken my re- 
venge. Do you think I did not suff r that 
evening when you sent your brother to 
take away my newly-wedded husband, 
upon whose face I have not gazed since?” 

“Your husband! I sent to take him 
away ! I do not understand you.” 

“Do you then dare to deny that you 
are not Martial’s mistress !” 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse! I saw 
him yesterday for the first time since 
Baron d'Escorval’s escape.” 

The effort which she had made to rise 
and to speak had exhausted her strength. 
She fell back in the arm-chair. 

But Blanche was pitiless. 

“You have not seen Martial ! Tell me, 
then, who gave you this costly furniture, 
these silken hangings, all the luxury that 
surrounds you?” 

“Chanlouineau.” 

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. 

“So be it,” she said, with an ironical 
smile, “but is it Chanlouineau for whom 
you are waiting this evening? Is it for 
Chanlouineau you have warmed these 
slippers and laid this table? Was it 
Chanlouineau who sent his clothing by a 
peasant named Poignot? You see that I 

know all ” 

But her victim was silent. 

“For whom are you waiting?” she in- 
sisted. “Answer!” 

“I cannot!” 

“You know that it is your lover! 
wretched woman — my husband. Mar- 
tial !” . 

Marie-Anne was considering the situa- 
tion as well as her intolerable sufferings 
and troubled mind would permit. 

Could she tell what guests she was 
expecting? 

To name Baron d’Escorval to Blanche 
would it not ruin and betray him ? They 
hoped for a safe conduct, a revision of 
judgment, but he was none the less un- 
der sentence of death, executory in twen- 
ty-four hours. 

“So you refuse to tell me whom you 
expect here in an hour — at midnight. 

“I refuse.” 

But a sudden impulse took possession 
of the sufferer's mind. 

Though the slightest movement caused 
her intolerable agony, she tore open her 
dress and drew from her bosom a folded 
paper. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


269 


“I am not the mistress of the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse,” she said, in an Almost 
inaudible voice; “I am the wife of Mau- 
rice d’Escorval. Here is the proof — 
read.” 

No sooner had Blanche glanced at the 
paper, than she became as pale as her 
victim. Her sight failed her ; there was 
a strange ringing in her ears, a cold sweat 
started from every pore. 

This paper was the marriage-certificate 
of Maurice and Marie-Anne. drawn up 
by the cure of Vigano, witnessed by the 
old physician and Bavois, and sealed with 
the seal of the parish. 

The proof was indisputable. She had 
committed a useless crime ; she had mur- 
dered an innocent woman. 

The first good impulse of her life made 
her heart beat more quickly. She did 
not stop to consider ; she forget the dan- 
ger to which she exposed herself, and in 
a ringing voice she cried : 

“Help ! help !” 

Eleven o’clock was sounding ; the whole 
country was asleep. The farm-house 
nearest the Borderie was half a league 
distant. 

The voice of Blanche was lost in the 
deep stillness of the night. 

In the garden below Aunt Medea heard 
it, perhaps ; but she would have allowed 
herself to be chopped in pieces rather 
than stir from her place. 

And yet, there was one who heard that 
cry of distress. Had Blanche and her 
victim been less overwhelmed “with de- 
spair, they would have heard a noise up- 
on the staircase, which creaked beneath 
the tread of a man who was cautiously 
ascending it. But it was not a saviour, 
for he did not answer the appeal. But 
even though there had been aid near at 
hand, it would have come too late. 

Marie-Anne felt that there was no lon- 
ger any hope for her, and {hat it was the 
chill of death which was creeping up to 
her heart. She felt that her life was fast 
ebbing away. 

So, when Blanche seemed about to 
rush out in search of assistance, she de- 
tained her by a gesture, and gently said : 

“Blanche.” 

The murderess paused. 

“Do not summon any one; it would do 
no good. Remain ; be calm, that I may 
at least die in peace. It will not be long, 
now.” 

“Hush! do not speak so. You must 
not, you shall not die ! If you should 
die— great God ! what would my life be 
afterwards?” 

Marie-Anne made no reply. The poi- 
son was pursuing its work of d'ssolution. 
Her breath made a whistling sound as it 
forced its way through her inflamed | 
throat ; her tongue, when she moved it, 
produced in her mouth the terrible sensa- 
tion of a piece of red-hot iron; her lips. 


i were parched and swollen; her hands, 
i inert and paralyzed, would no longer 
■ obey her will. 

But the horror of the situation restored 
Blanche's calmness. 

“All is not yet lost,” she exclaimed. 
“It was in that great box there upon the 
table, where I found’’ — she dared not ut- 
ter the word poison — “the white powder 
which I poured into the bowl. You 
know this powder ; you must know the 
antidote,” 

Marie-Anne sadly shook her head. 

“Nothing can save me now,” she mur- 
mured, in an almost inaudible voice; 
“but I do not complain. Who knows the 
misery from which death may preserve 
me. 1 do not crave life, I have suffered 
so much during the past year ; I have en- 
dured such humiliation ; I have wept so 
much ! A curse was upon me !” 

She was suddenly endowed with that 
clearness of mental vision so often grant- 
ed to the dying. She saw how she had 
wrought her own undoing by consenting 
to accept the perfidious role imposed up- 
on her by her father, and how she, her- 
self, had paved the way for the false- 
hoods, slander, crimes and misfortunes 
of which she had been the victim. 

Her voice grew fainter and fainter. 
Worn out by suffering, a sensation of 
drowsiness stole over her. She was fall- 
ing asleep in the arms of death. 

Suddenly such a terrible thought 
pierced the stupor which enveloped her 
that she uttered a heart-breaking cry : 

“My child!” 

Collecting, by a superhuman effort, all 
the will, energy, and strength that the 
poison had left her, she straightened her- 
self in her arm-chair, her features con- 
tracted by mortal anguish. 

“Blanche!” she said, with an energy 
of which one would have supposed her 
incapable. “Blanche, listen to me. It is 
the secret of my life which I am about to 
disclose; no one suspects it. I have a 
son by Maurice. Alas! many months 
have elapsed since my husband dis- 
appeared. If he is dead, what will be- 
come of my child? Blanche, you, who 
have killed me, must swear to me that 
you will be a mother to my child !” 

Blanche was utterly overcome. 

“I swear!” she sobbed, “I swear!” 

“On that condition, but on that condi- 
tion alone, I pardon you. But take care ! 
Do not forget your oath ! Blanche, God 
sometimes permits the dead to avenge 
themselves ! You have sworn, remember. 

“My spirit will allow you no rest if you 
do not fulfill your vow.” 

“I will remember,” sobbed Blanche; 
“I will remember. But the child ” 

“Ah! I was afraid— cowardly creature 
that I was ! I dreaded the shame — then 
Maurice insisted — I sent my child away 
— your jealousy and my death are my 


270 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


punishment. Poor child! I abandoned 
him to strangers. Wretched woman that 
I am ! Ah ! this suffering is too horrible. 
Blanche, remember ■” 

She spoke again, but her words were 
indistinct, inaudible. 

Blanche frantically seized the dying 
woman's arm, and endeavored to arouse 
her. 

“To whom have you confided your 
chila ?” she repeated; “to whom? 
Marie- Anne — a word more — a single word 
• — a name, Marie-Anne !” 

The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, 
hut the death-rattle sounded in her throat ; 
a terrible convulsion shook her form; 
she slid down from the chair, and fell 
full length upon the floor. 

Marie-Anne was dead — dead, and she 
had not disclosed the name of the old 
physician at Vigano to whom she had en- 
trusted her child. She was dead, and 
the terrified murderess stood in the mid- 
dle of the room, as rigid and motionless 
as a statue. It seemed to her that mad- 
ness — a madness like that which had 
stricken her father — was developing it- 
self in her brain. 

She forgot everything ; she forgot that 
a guest was expected at midnight ; that 
time was flying, and that she would sure- 
ly be discovered if she did not flee. 

But the man who had entered when 
she cried for aid was watching over her. 
When he saw that Marie-Anne had 
breathed her last, he made a slight noise 
at the door, and thrust his leering face 
into the room. 

“Chupin!” faltered Madame Blanche. 

“In the flesh,” he responded. “This 
was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha! 
The business riled your stomach a little, 
but nonsense! that will soon pass off. 
But we must not dawdle here ; some one 
may come in. Let us make haste.” 

Mechanically the murderess advanced ; 
but Marie-Anne‘s dead body lay between 
her and the door, barring the passage. 
To leave the room it was necessary to 
step over the lifeless form of her victim. 
She had not courage to do this, and re- 
coiled with a shudder. 

But Chupin was troubled by no such 
scruples. He sprang across the body, 
lifted Blanche as if she had been a child, 
and carried her out of the house. 

He was drunk with joy. Fears for the 
future no longer disquieted him, now 
that Madame Blanche was bound to him 
by the strongest of chains — complicity in 
crime. 

He saw himself on the threshold of a 
life of ease and continual feasting. Re- 
morse for Lacheneur’s betrayal had 
ceased to trouble him. He saw himself 
sumptuously fed, lodged and clothed; 
above all. effectually guarded by an army 
of servants. 

Blanche, who had experienced a feeling 


of deadly faintness, was revived by the 
cool night air. 

“I wish to walk,” said she. 

Chupin placed her on the ground about 
twenty paces from the house. 

“And Aunt Medea!” she exclaimed. 

Her relative was beside her ; like one 
of those dogs who are left at the door 
when their master enters a house, she 
had instinctively followed her niece on 
seeing her borne from the cottage by the 
old poacher. 

“We must not stop to talk,” said Chu- 
pin. “Come, I will lead the way.” 

And taking Blanche by the arm, he 
hastened towards the grove. 

“Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child,” he 
snid, as they hurried on. “She was pre- 
tended to be such a saint ! But where 
the devil has she put it?” 

“I shall find it.” 

“Hum ! That is easier said than done.” 

A shrill laugh, resounding in the dark- 
ness, interrupted him. He released his 
hold on the arm of Blanche and assumed 
an attitude of defense. 

Vain precaution! A man concealed 
behind a tree bounded upon him, and, 
plunging his knife four times into the old 
poacher’s writhing body, cried : 

“Holy Virgin!, now is my vow ful- 
filled! I shall no longer be obliged to 
eat with my fingers !” 

“The inn-keeper!” groaned the 
wounded man, sinking to the earth. 

For once in her life, Aunt Medea mani- 
fested some energy. 

“Come!” she shrieked, wild with fear, 
dragging her niece away. “Come — he is 
dead !” 

Not quite. The traitor had strength to 
crawl home and knock at the door. 

His wife and youngest son were sleep- 
ing soundly. His eldest son, who had 
just returned home, opened the door. 

Seeing his father prostrate on the 
ground, he thought he was intoxicated, 
and tried to lift him and carry him into 
the house, but the old poacher begged 
him to desist. 

“Do not touch me,” said he. “It is all 
over with me; but listen; Lacheneur’s 
daughter has just been poisoned by 
Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this 
that I dragged myself here. This knowl- 
edge is worth a fortune, my boy, if you 
are not a fool !” 

And he died, without being able to tell 
his family where he had concealed the 
price of Lacheneur's blood. 


CHAPTER XC. 

Of all the persons who witnessed 
Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall, the abbe 
was the only one who did not despair. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


271 


What a learned doctor would not have 
dared to do, he did. 

He was a priest ; he had faith. He re- 
membered the sublime saying of Am- 
broise Pare: “I dress the wound: God 
heals it.” 

After a six months’ sojourn in Father 
Poignot’s secluded farm-house, M. d'Es- 
corval was able to sit up and to walk about 
a little, with the aid of crutches. 

Then he began to be seriously incon- 
venienced by his cramped quarters in the 
loft, where prudence compelled him to 
remain; and it was with transports of 
joy that he welcomed the idea of taking 
up his abode at the Borderie with Marie- 
Anne. 

When the day of departure had been 
decided upon, he counted the minutes as 
impatiently as a school-boy pining for 
vacation. 

“I am suffocating here,” he said to his 
wife. 4 T am suffocating. Time drags so 
slowly. AVhen will the happy day come !” 

It came at last. During the morning 
all the articles which they had succeeded 
in procuring during their stay at the 
farm-house were collected and packed ; 
and when night came, Poignot’s son be- 
gan the moving. 

“Everything is at the Borderie,” said 
the honest fellow, on returning from his 
last trip, “and Mile. Lacheneur bids the 
baron bring a good appetite.” 

“I shall have one, never fear!” re- 
sponded the baron, gayly. 4 4 We shall all 
have one.” 

Father Poignot himself w T as busily en- 
gaged in harnessing his best horse to the 
cart which was to convey M. d’Eseoryal 
to his new home. 

The worthy man’s heart grew sad at 
the thought of the departure of these 
guests, for whose sake he had incurred 
such danger. He felt that he should 
miss them, that the house would seem 
gloomy and deserted after they left it. 

He would allow no one else to perform 
the task of arranging the mattress com- 
fortably in the cart. When this had been 
dond to his satisfaction, he heaved a deep 
sigh, and exclaimed : 

••lit is time to start !” 

Slowly he ascended the narrow stair- 
case leading to the loft. 

M. d’Escorval had not thought of the 
moment of parting. 

At the sight of the honest farmer, who 
came towards him, his face crimson with 
emotion, to bid him farewell, he forgot 
all the comfjrts tl.at awaited him at the 
Borderie, in the remem berance of the 
loyal and courageous hospitality he had 
received in the house he was about to 
leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. 

“You have rendered me a service which 
nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he 
said, with intense feeling, “\ ou have 
saved my life.” 


“Oh! we will not talk of that, baron. 
In my place, you would have done the 
same — neither more nor less.” 

“I shall not attempt to express my 
thanks, but I hope to live long enough to 
prove that I am not ungrateful.” 

The staircase was so narrow that they 
had considerable difficulty in carrying 
the baron down; but finally they had 
him comfortably extended upon his mat- 
tress and threw over him a few hands- 
full of straw, which concealed him en- 
tirely. 

“Farewell, then!” said the old farmer, 
when the last hand shake had been ex- 
changed, “or rather au revoir , Monsieur 
le Baron, madame, and you, my good 
cure.” 

“All ready?” inquired young Poignot. 

“Yes,” replied the invalid. 

The cart, driven with the utmost cau- 
tion by the young peasant, started slow- 
ly on its way. 

Madame d’Escorval, leaning upon the 
abbe’s arm, walked about twenty paces 
in the rear. 

It was very dark, but had it been as 
light as day the former cure of Sairmeuse 
might have encountered any of his old 
parishioners without the least danger of 
detection. 

His hair and his beard had been al- 
lowed to grow ; his tonsure had entirely 
disappeared, and his sedentary life had 
caused him to become much stouter. 
He was clad like all the well-to-do peas- 
ants of the neighborhood, Und his face 
was hidden by a large slouch hat. 

He had not felt so tranquil in mind for 
months. Obstacles which had appeared 
almost insurmountable had vanished. 
In the near future he saw the baron de- 
clared innocent by impartial judges ; he 
saw himself re-installed in the presby- 
tery of Sairmeuse. 

The recollection of Maurice was the 
only thing that marred his happiness. 
Why did he not give some sign of life? 

“But if he had met with any misfor- 
tune we should have heard of it,” 
thought the priest. “He has with him a 
brave man — an old soldier who would 
risk anything to come and tell us.” 

He was so absorbed in these thoughts 
that he did not observe that Madame 
d’Escorval was leaning more and more 
heavily upon his arm. 

“I am ashamed to confess it,” she said 
at last, “but I can go no farther. It has 
been so long since I was out of doors 
that I have almost forgotten how to 
walk.” 

“Fortunately we are almost there,” re- 
plied the priest. 

A moment after young Poignot stop- 
ped his cart in the road, at tne entrance 
of the little foot-path leading to the 
Borderie. 

“Our journey is ended!” he remarked 


272 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to the baron. Then he uttered a low 
whistle, like that which he had given a 
few hours before, to warn Marie-Anne of 
his arrival. 

No one appeared ; he whistled again, 
louder this time ; then with all his might 
— still no response. 

Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had 
now overtaken the cart. 

“It is very strange that Marie-Anne 
does not hear me,” remarked young 
Poignot, turning to them. “We cannot 
take the baron to the house until we 
have seen her. She knows that very 
well. Shall I run up and warn her?” 

“She is asleep, perhaps,” replied the 
abbe; “you stay with your horse, my 
boy, and I will go and wake her.” 

Certainly he did not feel the slightest 
disquietude. All was calm and still ; a 
bright light was shining through the 
windows of the second story. 

Still, when he saw the open door, a 
vague presentiment of evil stirred his 
heart. 

“What can this mean?” he thought. 

There was no light in the lower rooms, 
and the abbe was obliged to feel for the 
staircase with his hands. 

At last he found it and went up. But 
upon the threshold of the chamber he 
paused, petrified with horror by the spec- 
tacle before him. 

Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the 
floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, 
were covered with a white film; her 
black and Avollen tongue was hanging 
from her mouth. 

“Dead!” faltered the priest, “dead!” 

But this could not be. The abbe con- 
quered his weakness, and approaching 
the poor girl, he took her hand. 

It was icy cold; the arm was rigid as 
iron. 

“Poisoned !” he murmured; “poisoned 
with arsenic.” 

He rose to his feet, and cast a bewil- 
dered glance around the room. His eyes 
fell upon his medicine chest, open upon 
the table. 

He rushed to it and unhesitatingly took 
out a vial, uncorked it, and inverted it on 
the palm of his hand — it was empty. 

“I was not mistaken !” he exclaimed. 

But he had no time to lose in conjec- 
tures. 

The first thing to be done was to 
induce the baron to return to the farm- 
house without telling him the terrible 
misfortune which had occurred. 

To find a pretext was easy enough. 

The priest hastened back to the wagon, 
and with well-affected calmness told the 
baron that it would be impossible for 
him to take up his abode at the Borderie 
at present, that several suspicious-look- 
ing characters had been seen prowling 
about, and that they must be more pru- 
dent than ever, now they could relj r upon 


the kindly intervention of Martial de 
Sairmeuse. 

At last, but not without considerable 
reluctance, the baron yielded. 

“You desire it. cure,” he sighed, “so I 
obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, take me 
back to your father's house*” 

Madame d'Escorval took a seat in the 
ca.t beside her husband; the priest 
watched them as they drove away, and 
not until the sound of their carriage 
wheels had died away in the distance did 
he venture to go back to the Borderie. 

He was ascending the stairs when he 
heard moans that seemed to issue from 
the chamber of death. The sound sent 
nil his blood wildly rushing to his heart. 
He darted up the staircase. 

A man was kneeling beside Marie- 
Anne, weeping bitterly. The expression 
of his face, his attitude, his sobs 
betrayed the wildest despair. He was 
so lost in grief that he did not observe 
the abbe's entrance. 

Who was this mourner who had found 
his way to the house of death? 

After a moment, the priest divined 
who the intruder was, though he did not 
recognize him. 

“Jean!” he cried, “ Jean Lacheneur !” 

With a bound the young man was on 
his feet, pale and menacing ; a flame of 
anger drying the tears in his eyes. 

“Who are you?” he demanded, in a 
terrible voice. “What are you doing 
here? What do you wish with me?” 

By his peasant dress and by his long 
beard, the former cure of Sairmeuse was 
so effectually disguised that he was 
obliged to tell who he really was. 

As soon as he uttered his name, Jean 
uttered a cry of joy. 

“God has sent you here !” he exclaimed. 
“Marie- Anne cannot be dead ! You, who 
have saved so many others, will save 
her.” 

As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, 
Jean paused, his face more ghastly than 
before. He understood now that* there 
was no hope. 

“Ah!” he murmured, with an accent of 
frightful despondency, “fate shows us no 
mercy. I have been watching over Marie- 
Anne, though from a distance; and this 
very evening I was coming to say to her : 
‘Beware, sister — be cautious !’ ” 

“What! you knew ” 

“I kne^ she was in great danger; yes, 
monsieur. An hour ago, while I was 
eating my supper in a restaurant at Sair- 
meuse, Grollet's son entered. ‘Is this 
you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin 
hiding near your sister's’ house; when he 
observed me he slunk away.’ I ran here 
like one crazed. But when fate is against 
a man, what can he do? I came too late !” 

The abbe reflected for a moment. 

•‘Then you suppose that it was 
Chupin?’’ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


273 


“I do not suppose, sir ; I swear that it 
was he — the miserable traitor ! — who 
committed this foul deed.” 

‘•Still, what motive could he have had?” 

Jean burst into one of those discordant 
laughs that are, perhaps, the most fright- 
ful signs of despair. 

“You may rest assured that the blood 
of the daughter will yield him a richer 
reward than did the father's. Chupin 
has been the vile instrument ; but it was 
not he who conceived the crime. You 
will have to seek higher for the culprit, 
much higher, in the finest chateau of the 
country, in the midst of an army of 
valets at Sairmeuse, in short!” 

“Wretched man, what do you mean?” 

“What I say.” 

And coldly, he added : 

“Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.” 

The priest recoiled, really appalled by 
the looks and manner of the grief-stricken 
man. 

“You are mad!” he said, severely. 

But Jean gravely shook his head. 

“If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied, 
“it is only because you are ignorant of 
Martial's wild passion for Marie-Anne. 
He wished to make her his mistress. She 
had the audacity to refuse this honor; 
that was a crime for which she must be 
punished. When the Marquis de Sair- 
meuse became convinced that Lache- 
neur’s daughter would never be his, he 
poisoned her that she might not belong 
to another. 

Any attempt to convince Jean of the 
folly of his accusations would have been 
vain at that moment. No proofs would 
have convinced him. He would have 
closed his eyes to all evidence. 

“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I 
w r ill reason with him,” thought the abbe ; 
then, turning to Jean, he said : 

“We cannot allow the body of the poor 
girl to remain here upon the floor. As- 
sist me, and we will place it upon the 
bed.” 

J ean trembled from head to foot, and 
his hesitation was apparent. 

“Very well !” he said, at last, after a 
severe struggle. 

No one had ever slept upon this bed 
which poor Chanlouineau had destined 
for Marie-Anne. 

“It shall be for her,” he said to him- 
self, “or for no one.” 

And it was Marie-Anne who rested 
there first — dead. 

When this sad task was accomplished, 
he threw himself into the same arm chair 
in which Marie-Anne had breathed her 
last, and with his face buried in his 
hands, and his elbows supported upon 
his knees, he sat there as silent and mo- 
tionless as the statues of sorrow placed 
above the last resting places of the dead. 

The abbe knelt at the head of the bed 
and began the recital of the prayers foi- 
ls 


the dead, entreating God to grant peace 
and happiness in heaven to her who had 
suffered so much upon earth. 

But he prayed only with his lips. In 
spite of his efforts, his mind would per- 
sist in wanderin >•. 

He was striving to solve the mystery 
that enshrouded Marie-Anne's death. 
Had she been murdered? Could it be 
that she had committed suic de? 

This explanation recurred to him, but 
he could not believe it. 

But, on the other hand, how could her 
death possibly be the result of crime? 

He had carefully examined the room, 
and he had discovered nothing that be- 
trayed the presence of a stranger. 

All that he could prove was. that his 
vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie- 
Anne had been poisoned by the bouillon , 
a few drops of which were left in the 
bowl that was standing upon the man- 
tel. 

“When daylight comes,” thought the 
abbe, -‘I will look outside.” 

When morning broke, he went into the 
garden, and made a careful examination 
of the premises. 

At first he saw nothing that gave him 
the least clew, and was about to abandon 
the investigations, when, upon entering 
the little grove, he saw in the distance a 
large dark stain upon the grass. He went 
nearer — it was blood ! 

Much excited, he summoned Jean, to 
inform him of the discovery. 

“Some one has been assassinated here.” 
said Lacheneur; “and it happened last 
night, for the blood has not had time to 
dry.” 

“The victim lost a great d al of blood,” 
the priest remarked; “it might be possi- 
ble to discover who he was by following 
up these stains.” 

“I am going to try,” responded Jean. 
“Go back to the house, sir; 1 will soon 
return.” 

A child might have followed the track 
of the wounded man, the blood stains 
left in his passage were so frequent and 
so distinct. 

These tell-tale marks stopped at Ohu- 
pin’s house. The door was closed ; Jean 
rapped without the slightest hesitation. 

The old poacher’s eldest son opened 
the door, and Jean saw a strange specta- 
cle. 

The traitor’s body had been thrown on 
the ground, in a corner of the room, the 
bed was overturned and broken, all the 
straw had been torn from the mattress, 
and the wife and sons of the dead man, 
armed with pickaxes and spades, were 
wildly overturning the beaten soil that 
formed the floor of the hovel. They 
were seeking the hidden treasures. 

“What do you want?” demanded the 
widow, rudely. 

“Father Chupin.” 


274 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“You can see very plainly that he has| 
boen murdered,” replied one of the sons. 

And brandishing his pick a few inches 
from Jean’s head, he exclaimed: 

“And you, perhaps, are the assassin. 
But that is for justice to determine. 
Now, decamp ; if you do not ” 

Had he listened to the promptings of 
anger. Jean Lacheneur would certainly 
have attempted to make the Chupins re- 
pent their menaces. 

But a conflict was scarcely permissible 
under the circumstances. 

He departed without a word, and has- 
tened back to the Borderie. 

The death of Chupin overturned all his 
plans, and greatly irritated him. 

•T had sworn that the vile wretch who 
betrayed my father should perish by my 
hand,” he murmured; “and now my 
vengeance has escaped me. Some one 
has robbed me of it.” 

Then he asked himself who the mur- 
derer could be. 

“Is it possible that Martial assassinated 
Chupin after he murdered Marie- Anne? 
To kill an accomplice is an effectual way 
of assuring one's self of his silence.” 

He had reached the Borderie, and was 
about going up-stairs, when he thought 
lie heard the sound of voices in the back 
room. 

“That is strange,” he said to himself. 
“Who can it be?” 

And impelled by curiosity, he went and 
tapped upon the communicating door. 

The abbe instantly made his appear- 
ance, hurriedly closing the door behind 
him. He was very pale, and visibly agi- 
tated. 

“Who is it?” inquired Jean, eagerly. 

“It is — it is. Guess who it is.” 

“How can I guess?” 

“Maurice d'Escorval and Corporal 
Bavois.” 

“My God!” 

“And it is a miracle that he has not 
been up-stairs.” 

“But whence does he come! Why 
have we received no news of him !” 

“I do not know. He has been here 
only five minutes. Poor boy! after I 
told him that his father was safe, his 
first words were: ‘And Marie- Anne?’ 
He loves her more devotedly than ever. 
He comes with his heart full of her, con- 
fident and hopeful; and I tremble — I 
fear to tell him the truth.” 

“Oh terrible! terrible!” 

“I have warned you; be prudent — and 
now. come in.” 

They entered the room together ; and 
Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean 
with the most ardent expressions of 
friendship. 

They had not seen each other since the 
duel on the Reche, which had been in- 
terrupted by the arrival of the soldiers ; 


and w’hen they parted that day they 
scarcely expected to meet again. 

“And now we are together once more,” 
said Maurice, gayly, “and we have noth- 
ing to fear.” 

Never had the unfortunate man seemed 
so cheerful ; and it was with the most 
jubilant air that he explained the reason 
of his long silence. 

“Three days after we crossed the fron- 
tier,” said he, “Corporal Bavois and I 
reached Tui in. It was time, for we 
were tired out. We went to a small inn, 
and they gave us a room with two beds. 

“That evening, while we were undress- 
ing, the corporal said to me : ‘I am capa- 
ble of sleeping two whole days without 
waking.’ I, too, promised myself a rest 
of at least twelve hours. We reckoned 
without our host, a§ you will see. 

“It was scarcely daybreak when we 
were awakened by a great tumult. A 
dozen rough-looking men entered our 
room, and ordered us, in Italian, to dress 
ourselves. They were too strong for us, 
so we obeyed ; and an hour later we were 
in prison, confined in the same cell. Our 
reflections, I confess, were not couleur de 
rose. 

“I well remember how the corporal 
said again and again, in that cool way of 
his : ‘It will require four days to obtain 
our extradition, three days to take us 
back to Montaignac — that is seven days ; 
it will take one day more to try me ; so I 
have in all eight days to live.' ” 

‘‘Upon my word! that was exactly 
what I thought,” said the old soldier, ap- 
provingty. 

“For five months,” continued Maurice, 
“instead of saying ‘good-night’ to each 
other, we said : ‘To-morrow they will 
come for us.’ But they did not come. 

“We were kindly treated. They did 
not take away my money ; and they will- 
ingly sold us little luxuries ; they also 
granted us two hours of exercise each 
day in the court-yard, and even loaned 
us books to read. In short, I should 
not have had any particular cause tp 
complain, if I had been allowed to re- 
ceive or to forward letters, or if I had 
been able to communicate with my father 
or with Marie- Anne. But we were in the 
secret cells, and were not allowed to have 
any intercourse with the other prisoners. 

“At length our detention seemed so 
strange and became so insupportable to 
us, that we resolved to obtain some ex- 
planation of it, cost what it might. 

“We changed our tactics. Up to that 
time we had been quiet and submissive ; 
we suddenly became violent and intract- 
able. We made the prison resound with 
our cries and protestacions ; we were con- 
tinually sending for the superintendent ; 
we claimed the intervention of the French 
ambassador. We were not obliged to 
wait long for the result. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


275 


4 One fine afternoon, the superintendent 
released us. not without expressing much 
regret at being deprived of the society of 
such aimiable and charming guests. 

‘‘Our first act, as you may suppose, 
was to run to the ambassador. We did 
not see that dignitary, but his secretary 
received us. He knit his brows when I 
told my story, and became excessively 
grave. I remember each word of his 
reply. 

“ ‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I can swear that 
the persecution of which you have been 
the object in France had nothing what- 
ever to do with your detention here.’ 

“And as I expressed my astonishment : 

“ ‘One moment.’ he added. ‘I shall 
express my opinion very frankly. One 
of your enemies— I leaveVou to discover 
which one — must exert a very powerful 
influence in Turin. You were*m his way, 
perhaps : he had you imprisoned by the 
Piedmontese police.’ ” 

With a heavy blow of his clenched fist, 
Jean Lacheneur made the table beside 
him reel. 

“Ah! the secretary was right!” he ex- 
claimed. “Maurice, it was Martial de 
Sairmeuse who caused your arrest ” 

“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” in- 
terrupted the abbe, with a warning 
glance at Jean. 

A wrathful light gleamed for an instant 
in the eyes of Maurice ; but it vanished 
almost immediately, and he shrugged his 
shoulders carelessly. 

“Nonsense,” said he, “I do not wish to 
trouble myself any more about the past. 
My father is well again, that is the main 
thing. We can easily find some way of 
getting him safely across the frontier. 
Marie- Anne and I, by our devotion, will 
strive to make him forget that my rash- 
ness almost cost him his life. He is so 
good, so indulgent to the faults of others. 
We will take up our residence in Italy or 
in Switzerland. You will accompany us, 
Monsieur l’Abbe, and you also, Jean. As 
for you, corporal, it is decided that you 
belong to our family.” 

Nothing could be more horrible than to 
see this man, upon whose life such a 
terrible blight was about to fall, so bright 
and full of hope and confidence. 

The impression produced upon Jean 
and the abbe was so terrible, that, in 
spite of their efforts, it showed itself in 
their faces; and Maurice remarked their 
agitation. 

“What is the matter?” he inqu’red, in 
tvi lent surprise. 

They trembled, hung their heads, but 
did not say a word. 

The unfortunate man’s a tonishment 
changed to a vague, inexpressible fear. 

He enumerated all the misfortunes 
which could possibly have befallen him. 

“What has happened?” he asked, in a 
stifled voice. “My father is safe, is he 


not? You said that my mother would 
desire nothing, if I were with her again. 
Is it Marie- Anne ” 

He hesitated. 

“Courage, Maurice,” murmured the 
abbe. “Courage !” 

The stricken man tottered as if about to 
fall ; his face grew whiter than the plas- 
tered wall against which he leaned for 
support. 

“Marie-Anne is dead !” he exclaimed. 

Jean and the abbe were silent. 

“Dead!” Maurice repeated — “and no 
secret voice warned me ! Dead ! — when ?” 

“She died only last night,” replied 
Jean. 

Maurice rose. 

“Last night?” said he. “In that case, 
then, she is still here. Where? — up- 
stairs?” 

And without waiting for any response, 
he darted toward the staircase so quickly 
that neither Jean nor the abbe had time 
to intercept him. 

With three bounds he reached the cham- 
ber; he walked straight to the bed, and 
with a firm hand turned back the sheet 
that hid the face of the dead. 

He recoiled with a heart-broken cry. 

Was this indeed the beautiful, the radi- 
ant Marie-Anne, whom he had loved to 
his own undoing ! He did not recognize 
her. 

He could not recognize these distorted 
features, this face swollen and discolored 
by poison, these eyes which were almost 
concealed by the purple swelling around 
them. 

When Jean and the priest entered the 
room they found him standing with head 
thrown back, eyes dilated with terror, 
and rigid arm extended toward the 
corpse. 

“Maurice,” said the priest, gently, “be 
calm. Courage!” 

He turned with an expression of com- 
plete bewilderment upon his features. 

“Yes,” he faltered, “that is what I need 
— courage !” 

He staggered; they were obliged to 
support him to an arm-chair. 

“Be a man,” continued the priest; 
“where is your energy? To live, is to 
suffer.” 

He listened, but did not seem to compre- 
hend. 

“Live!” he murmured, “why should I 
desire to live since she is dead?” 

The dread light of insanity glittered in 
his dry eyes. The abbe was alarmed. 

“If he does not weep, he will lose his 
reason !” he thought. 

And in an imperious voice, he said : 

“You have no right to despair thus; 
you owe a sacred duty to your^ child.” 

The recollection which had given Marie- 
Anne strength to hold death at bay for a 
moment, saved Maurice from the danger- 
ous torpor into which he w T as sinking. 


27 G 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


lie trembled as if he had received an 
electric shock, and springing from his 
chair : 

“That is true,” he cried. “Take me to 
my ehild.” 

“Not just now, Maurice ; wait a little.” 

“Where is it? Tell me where it is.” 

“I cannot ; I do not know.” 

An expression of unspeakable anguish 
stole over the face of Maurice, and in a 
husky voice he said : 

“What ! you do not know? Did she not 
confide in you?” 

“No. I suspected her secret. I, 
alone ” 

“You, alone! Then the child is dead, 
perhaps. Even if it is living, who can 
tell me where it is ?” 

“We shall undoubtedly find something 
that will give us a clew.” 

“You aVe right,’ ’ faltered the wretched 
man. “When Marie- Anne knew that her 
life was in danger, she would not have 
forgotten her child. Those who cared 
for her in her last moments must have 
received some message for me. I wish to 
see those who watched over her. Who 
were they !” 

The priest averted his face. 

“I asked you who was with her when 
she died,” repeated Maurice, in a sort of 
frenzy. 

And, as the abbe remained silent, a 
terrible light dawned on the mind of the 
stricken man. He understood the cause 
of Marie-Anne’s distorted features now. 

“She perished the victim of a crime!” 
he exclaimed. “Some monster has 
killed her. If she died such a death, our 
child is lost forever! And it was I who 
recommended, who commanded the 
greatest precautions ! Ah ! it is a curse 
upon me !” 

He sank back in his chair, overwhelmed 
with sorrow and remorse, and silent 
tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. 

“He is saved!” thought the abbe, 
whose heart bled at the sight of such 
despair! Suddenly some one plucked 
him by the sleeve. 

It was Jean Lacheneur, and he drew 
the priest into the embrasure of a win- 
dow. 

“What is this about a child?” he asked, 
harshly. 

A flood of crimson suffused the brow 
of the priest. 

“You have heard,” he responded, la- 
conically. 

“Am I to understand that Marie- Anne 
was the mistress of Maurice, and that 
she had a child by him? Is this true? I 
will not — I cannot believe it ! She, 
whom I revered as a saint! Did her 
pure forehead and her chaste looks lie? 
And he — Maurice — he whom I loved as a 
brother ! So. his friendship was only a 
mask assumed to enable him to steal our 
honor!” 


He hissed these words through his set 
teeth in such low tones that Maurice, ab- 
sorbed in his agony of grief, did not 
overhear him. 

“But how did she conceal her shame?” 
he continued. “No one suspected it — 
absolutely no one. And what has she 
done with her child? Appalled by a 
dread of disgrace, did she commit the 
crime committed by so many other ruin- 
ed and forsaken women? Did she mur- 
der her own child?” 

A hideous smile curved his thin lips. 

“If the child is alive,” he added, “I 
will find it, and Maurice shall be pun- 
ished for his perfidy as he deserves.” 

He paused ; the sound of horses’ hoofs 
upon the road attracted his attention, and 
that of Abbe Midon. 

They glanced out of the window and 
saw a horseman stop before the little 
foot-path, alight from his horse, throw 
the reins to his groom, and advance 
towards the Borderie. 

At the sight of the visitor. Jean La- 
cheneur uttered the frightful howl of an 
infuriated wild beast. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse here!” he 
exclaimed. 

He sprang to Maurice, and shaking 
him violently, he cried : 

“Up! here is Martial, Marie-Anne’s 
murderer ! Up ! he is coming ! he is at 
our mercy !” 

Maurice sprang up in a fury of passion, 
but the abbe darted to the door and 
intercepted the infuriated men as they 
were about to leave the room. 

“Not a word, young men, not a threat !” 
he said, imperiously. “1 forbid it. At 
least respect the dead who is lying here !” 

There was such an irresistible authority 
in his words and glance, that Jean and 
Maurice stood as if turned to stone. 

Before the priest had time to say more. 
Martial was there. 

He did not cross the threshold. With a 
glance he took in the whole scene ; he 
turned very pale, but not a gesture, not a 
word escaped his lips. 

Wonderful as was his accustomed con- 
trol over himself, he could not articulate 
a syllable ; and it was only by pointing 
to the bed upon which Marie-Anne’s life- 
less form was reposing, that he asked an 
explanation. 

“She was infamously poisoned last 
evening,” replied the abbe, sadly. 

Maurice forgetting the priest’s com- 
mands stepped forward. 

“She was alone and defenseless. I 
have been at liberty only two days. But 
I know the name of the man who had me 
arrested in Turin, and thrown into 
prison. They told me the coward's 
name !” 

Instinctively Martial recoiled. 

“It was you, infamous wretch!” ex- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


277 


claimed Maurice. 44 You confess your 
guilt, scoundrel?” 

Once again the abbe interposed; he 
threw himself between the rivals, per- 
suaded that Martial was about to attack 
Maurice. 

But no; the Marquis de Sairmeuse had 
resumed the haughty and . indifferent 
manner which was habitual to him. He 
took from his pocket a bulky envelope, 
and throwing it upon the table : 

4 ‘Here,” he said coldly, “is what I was 
bringing to Mile. Lacheneur. It contains 
first a safe conduct from his majesty for 
M. d’Escorval. From this moment, he is 
at liberty to leave Poignot’s f irm-house 
and return to Esborval. He is free, he is 
saved, he is granted a new trial, and 
there can be no doubt of his acquittal. 
Here is also a decree of his non-complic- 
ity rendered in favor of Abbe Midon, 
and an order from the bishop which re- 
instates him as Cure of Sairmeuse; and 
lastly a discharge, drawn up in due form, 
and an acknowledged right to a pension 
in the name of Corporal Bavois.” 

He paused, and as his astonished 
hearers stood rooted to their places with 
wonder, he turned and approached Marie- 
Anne’s bedside. 

With hand uplifted to heaven over the 
lifeless form of her whom he had loved, 
and in a voice that would have made the 
murderess tremble in her innermost soul, 
he said, solemnly : 

44 To you, Marie- Anne, I swear that I 
will avenge you !” 

For a few seconds he stood motionless, 
then suddenly, he stooped, pressed a kiss 
upon the dead girl’s brow, and left the 
room. 

“And you think that man can be 
guilty!” exclaimed the abbe. “You see, 
Jean, that you are mad!” 

“And this last insult to my dead sister 
is an honor, I suppose,” said Jean, with a 
furious gesture. 

“And the wretch binds my hands by 
saving my father !” exclaimed Maurice. 

From his place by the window, the 
Abbe saw Martial remount his horse. 

But the marquis did not take the road 
to Montaignac. It was towards the 
Chateau de Courtornieu that he hastened. 


CHAPTER XCI. 

The reason of Madame Blanche had 
sustained a frightful shock, when Chu- 
pin was obliged to lift her and carry her 
from Marie-Anne’s chamber. 

But she lost consciousness entirely 
when she saw the old poacher stricken 
down by her side. 

On and after that night Aunt Medea 
took her revenge for all the slights she 
had received. 


Scarcely tolerated until then, at Cour- 
tornieu, she henceforth made herself 
respected, and even feared. 

She, who usually swooned if a kitten 
hurt itself, did not utter a cry. Her ex- 
treme fear gave her the courage that not 
unfrequently animates cowards when 
they are in some dire extremity. 

She seized the arm of her bewildered 
niece, and, by dint of dragging and 
pushing, had her back at the chateau in 
much less time than it had taken them to 
go to the Borderie. 

It was half-past one o’clock when they 
reached the little garden-gate, by which 
they had left the grounds. 

No one in the chateau was aware of 
their long absence. 

This was due to several different cir- 
cumstances. First, to the precautions 
taken by Blanche, who had given orders, 
before going out, that no one should 
come to her room, on any pretext what- 
ever, unless she rang. 

It also cli meed to be the birthday of 
the marquis’s valet de chambre. The 
servants had dined more sumptuously 
than usual. They had toasts and songs 
over their dessert ; and at the conclusion 
of the r past, they amused themselves 
by an extempore ball. 

They were still dancing at half-past 
one; all the doors were open, and the 
two ladies succeeded in gaining the 
chamber of Blanche without being ob- 
served. 

When the doors of the apartment had 
been securely closed, and when there 
was no longer any fear of listeners, 
Aunt Medea attacked her niece. 

“Now will you explain what happened 
at the Borderie ; and what you were do- 
ing there?” she inquired. 

Blanche shuddered. 

“Why do you wish to know?” she 
asked. 

“Because I suffered agony during the 
three hours that I spent in waiting for 
you. What was the meaning of those 
despairing cries that I heard? Why did 
you call mr aid? I heard a death-rattle 
that made my hair stand on end with 
terror. Why was it necessary for Chu- 
pin to bring you out in his arms?” 

Aunt Medea would have packed her 
trunks, perhaps, that very evening, had 
she seen the glance which her niece be- 
stowed upon her. 

Blanche longed for power to annihilate 
this relative — this witness who might ruin 
her by a word, but whom she would ever 
have beside her, a living reproach for 
her crime. 

“You do not answer me,” insisted Aunt 
Medea. 

Blanche was trying to decide whether 
it would be better for her to reveal the 
truth, horrible as it was, or to invent 
some plausible explanation. 


278 


MONSIEUK LECOQ 


To confess all ! It would be intolera- 
ble. She would place herself, body and 
soul, in Aunt Medea’s power. 

But, on the other hand, if she deceived 
her, was it not more than probable that 
her aunt 'would betray her by some in- 
voluntary exclamation when she heard 
of the crime which had been committed 
at the Borderie? 

“For she is so stupid!” thought 
Blanche. 

She felt that it would be the wisest plan, 
under such circumstances, to be perfectly 
frank, to teach her relative her lesson, 
and to imbue her with some of her own 
firmness. 

Having come to this conclusion, she 
disdained all concealment. 

“Ah, well!” she said, “I was jealous 
of Marie-Anne. I thought she was Mar- 
tial's mistress. I was half crazed, and 
I killed her.” 

She expected despairing cries, or a 
fainting fit ; nothing of the kind. Stupid 
though Aunt Medea was, she had divined 
the truth before she interrogated her 
niece. Besides, the insults she had re- 
ceived for years had extinguished every 
generous sentiment, dried up the springs 
of emotion, and destroyed every particle 
of moral sensibility she had ever pos- 
sessed. 

“Ah !” she exclaimed, “it is terrible ! 
What if it should be discovered !” 

Then she shed a few tears, but not 
more than she had often wept for some 
trifle. 

Blanche breathed more freely. Surely 
she could count upon the silence and 
absolute submission of her dependent 
relative. Convinced of this, she began 
to recount all the details of the frightful 
drama which had been enacted at the 
Borderie. 

She yielded to a desire which was 
stronger than her own will ; to the wild 
longing that sometimes unbinds the 
tongue of the worst criminals, and forces 
them — irresistibly impels them to talk of 
their crimes, even when they distrust 
their confidant. 

But when she came to the proofs which 
had convinced’ her of her lamentable 
mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay. 

That certificate of marriage signed by 
the Cure of Vigano : what had she done 
with it? where was it? She remembered 
holding it in her hands. 

She sprang up, examined the pocket of 
her dress and uttered a cry of joy. She 
had it safe. She threw it into a drawer, 
and turned the key. 

Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own 
room, but Blanche entreated her to re- 
main. She was unwilling to be left alone 
— she dared not — she was afraid. 

And as if she desired to silence the in- 
ward voice that tormented her, she 
talked with extreme volubility, repeating 


again and again that she was ready to do 
anything in expiation of her crime, and 
that she would brave impossibilities to 
recover Marie- Anne's child. 

And certainly, the task was both diffi- 
cult and dangerous. 

If she sought the child openly, it 
would be equivalent to a confession of 
guilt. She would be compelled to act 
secretly, and with great caution. 

“But I shall succeed,” she said. “I 
will spare no expense.” 

And remembering her vow, and the 
threats of her dying victim, she added : 

“I must succeed. I have sworn — and 
I was forgiven under those conditions.” 

Astonishment dried the ever ready 
tears of Aunt Medea. 

That her niece, with her dreadful 
crime still fresh in her min’d, could coolly 
reason, deliberate, and make plans for 
the future, seemed to her incomprehen- 
sible. 

“What an iron will!” she thought. 

But in her bewilderment she quite 
overlooked something that would have 
enlightened any ordinary observer. 

Blanche was seated upon her bed, her 
hair was unbound, her eyes were glitter- 
ing with delirium, and her incoherent 
words and her excited gestures betrayed 
the frightful anxiety that was torturing 
her. 

And she talked and talked, exclaiming, 
questioning Aunt Medea, and forcing 
her to reply, only that she might escape 
from her own thoughts. 

Morning had dawned some time before, 
and the servants were heard bustling 
about the chateau, and Blanche, obliv- 
ious to all around her, was still explain- 
ing how she could, in less than a year, 
restore Marie-Anne's child to Maurice 
d’Escorval. 

She paused abruptly in the middle of a 
sentence. 

Instinct had suddenly warned her of 
the danger she incurred in making the 
slightest change in her habits. 

She sent Aunt Medea away, then, at 
the usual hour, rang for her maid. 

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and she 
was just completing her toilette, when 
the ringing of the bell announced a vis- 
itor. 

Almost immediately a maid appeared, 
evidently in a state of great excitement. 

“What is it?” inquired Blanche, eager- 
ly. “Who has come?” 

“Ah, madame — that is, mademoiselle, 
if you only knew ” 

“ Will you speak?” 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is below, 
in the blue drawing-room; and he begs 
mademoiselle to grant him a few mo- 
ments’ conversation.” 

Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at 
the feet of the murderess, she could not 
have been more terrified. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


279 


“All must have been discovered!” this 
was her first thought. That alone would 
have brought Martial there. 

She almost decided to reply that she 
was not at home, or that she was ex- 
tremely ill ; but reason told her that she 
was alarming herself needlessly, perhaps, 
and that, in any case, the worst was pre- 
ferable to suspense. 

“Tell the marquis that I will be there 
in a moment,” she replied. 

She desired a few minutes of solitude 
to compose her features, to regain her 
self-possession, if possible, and to con- 
quer the nervous trembling that made 
her shake like a leaf. 

But just as she was most disquieted by 
the thought of her peril, a sudden inspir- 
ation brought a malicious smile to her 
lip. 

“Ah!” she thought, “my agitation will 
seem perfectly natural. It may even be 
made of service.” 

As she descended the grand staircase, 
she could not help saying to herself : 

“Martial’s presence here is incompre- 
hensible.” 

It was certainly very extraordinary; 
and it had not bet n without much hesita- 
tion that he resolved upon this painful 
step. 

But it was the only means of procuring 
several important documents which were 
indispensable in the revision of M. d’Es- 
corval’s case. 

These documents, after the baron's 
condemnation, had been left in the hands 
of the Marquis de Courtornieu. Now 
that he had lost his reason, it was impos- 
sible to ask him for them ; and Martial 
was obliged to apply to the daughter for 
permission to search for them among her 
father's papers. 

This was why Martial said to himself 
that morning : 

“I will carry the baron’s safe-conduct 
to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to 
Courtornieu.” 

He arrived at the Borderie gay and 
confident, his heart full of hope. Alas ! 
Marie-Anne was dead. 

No one would ever know what a ter- 
rible blow it had been to Martial ; and 
his conscience told him that he was not 
free from blame ; that he had, at least, 
rendered the execution of the crime an 
easy matter. 

For it was indeed he who, by abusing 
his influence, had caused the arrest of 
Maurice at Turin. 

But though he was capable of the 
basest perfidy when his love was at stake, 
he was incapable of virulent animosity.. 

Marie-Anne was dead ; he had it in his 
power to revoke the benefits he had con- 
ferred, but the thought of doing so never 
once occurred to him. And when Jean 
and Maurice insulted him, he revenged 
himself only by overwhelming them by 


his magnanimity. When he left the 
Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still 
cold from the kiss pressed on the brow 
of the dead, he said to himself : 

“For her sake, I will go to Courtor- 
nieu. In memory of her, the baron must 
be saved.” 

By the expression on the faces of the 
valets when he dismounted in the court- 
yard of the chateau and asked to see 
Mme. Blanche, the marquis was again 
reminded of the profound sensation 
which this unexpected visit would pro- 
duce. But, what did it matter to him? 
He was passing through one of those 
crises in which the mind can conceive of 
no further misfortune, and is therefore 
indifferent to eve^thing. 

Still he trembled when they ushered 
him into the blue drawing-room. He re- 
membered the room well. It was here 
that Blanche had been wont to receive 
him in days gone by, when his fancy was 
vascillating between her and Marie-Anne. 

How many pleasant hours they had 
passed together here ! He seemed to see 
Blanche again, as she was then, radiant 
with youth, gay and laughing. Her nai- 
vete was affected, perhaps, but was it 
any the less charming on that account? 

At this very moment Blanche entered 
the room. She looked so careworn and 
sad that he scarcely knew her. His 
heart was touched by the look of patient 
sorrow imprinted upon her features. 

“How much you must have suffered, 
Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely know- 
ing what he said. 

It cost her an effort to repress her 
secret joy. She saw that he knew noth- 
ing of her crime. She noticed his emo- 
tion, and saw the profit she coaid derive 
from it. 

“I can never cease to regret having 
displeased you,” she replied, humbly a d 
sadly. “I shall never be consoled.” 

She had touched the vulnerable spot in 
every man’s heart. 

For there is no man so skeptical, so 
cold, or so blase that his vanity is not 
pleased with the thought that a woman 
is dying for his sake. 

There is no man who is not moved by 
th s most delicious flattery, and who i ? 
not ready and willing to give, at least, a 
tender pity in exchange for such devo- 
tion. 

“Is it possible that you could forgive 
me?” stammered Martial. 

The wily enchantress averted her face 
as if to prevent him from reading in her 
eyes a weakness of which she was 
ashamed. It was the most eloquent of 
replies. 

But Martial said no more on this sub- 
ject. He made known his petition, which 
was granted', then fearing, perhaps, to 
promise too much, he said : 

“Since you do not forbid it, Blanche, I 


280 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


will return -to-morrow — another day.” 

As he rode back to Montaignac, Mar- 
tial’s thoughts were busy. 

“She really loves me,” he thought; 
“that pallor, that weakness could not be 
feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, 
after all. The reasons that influenced 
me in my rupture with her father exist 
no longer, and the Marquis de Courtor- 
nieu may be regarded as dead.” 

All the inhabitants of Sainneuse were 
congregated on the public square when 
Martial passed through the village. 
They had just heard of the murder at 
the Borderie, and the abbe was now 
closeted with the justice of the peace, 
relating the circumstances of the poison- 
ing. 

After a prolonged inquest the follow- 
ing verdict was rendered: “That a man 
known as Chupin, a notoriously bad 
character, had entered the house of 
Marie- Anne Lacheneur, and taken advan- 
tage of her absence to qiingle poison 
with her food. ’ 

The report added that : “Said Chupin 
had been himself assassinated, soon after 
his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose 
whereabouts were unknown.” 

But this affair interested the communi- 
ty much less than the visits which 
Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. 

It was soon rumored that the Marquis 
and the Marquise de Sairmeuse were 
reconciled, and in a few weeks they left 
for Paris with the intention of residing 
there permanently. A few days after 
their departure, the eldest of the Chupins 
announced his determination of taking 
up his abole in the same great city. 

Some of his friends endeavored to dis- 
suade him, assuring him that he would 
certainly die of starvation. 

“Nonsense !” he replied, with singular 
assurance; “I, on the contrary, have an 
idea that I shall not want for anything 
there.” 


CHAPTER XCII. 

Time gradually heals all wounds, and 
in less than a year it was difficult to dis- 
cern any trace of the fierce whirlwind of 
passion which had devastated the peace- 
ful valley of the Oiselle. 

What remained to attest the reality of 
all these events, which, though they 
were so recent, had already been rele- 
gated to the domain of the legendary? 

A charred ruin on the Reche. 

A grave in the cemetery, upon which 
was inscribed : 

“Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at 

THE AGE OF TWENTY. PRAY FOR HER !” 

Only a few, the oldest men and the 
politicians of the village, forgot their 


solicitude in regard to the crops to re- 
member this episode. 

Sometimes, during the long winter 
evenings, when they had gathered at the 
Boeuf Couronne, they laid down their 
greasy cards and gravely discussed the 
events of the past years. 

They never failed to remark that 
almost all the actors in that bloody drama 
at Montaignac had, in common parlance, 
“come to a bad end.” 

Victors and vanquished seemed to be 
pursued by the same inexorable fatality. 

Look at the names already upon the 
fatal list ! 

Lacheneur, beheaded. 

Chanloui eau, shot. 

Marie-Anne, poisoned. 

Chupin, the traitor, assassinated. 

The Marquis de CourtOrnieu lived, or 
rather survived, but death would have 
seemed a mercy in comparison with such 
total annihilation of intelligence. He 
had fallen below the level of the brute, 
which is, at least, endowed with instinct. 
Since the departure of his daughter he 
had been cared for by two servants, who 
did not allow him to give them much 
trouble, and when they desired to go out 
they shut him up, not in his chamber, 
but in the cellar, to prevent his ravings 
and shrieks from being heard from with- 
out. 

If people supposed for awhile that the 
Sairmeuse would escape the fate of the 
others, they were mistaken. It was not 
long before the curse fell upon them. 

One fine morning in the month of De- 
cember, the duke left the chateau to take 
part in a wolf-liunt in the neighbor- 
hood. 

At nightfall, his horse returned, pant- 
ing. covered with foam, and riderless. 

What had become of its master ? 

A search was instituted at once, and 
all night long twenty men, bearing tor- 
ches, wandered through the woods, shout- 
ing and calling at the top of their voices. 

Five days w ent by, and the search for 
the missing man was almost abandoned, 
when a shepherd lad, pa e with fear, 
came to the chateau one morning . to tell 
them that he had discovered, at "the base 
of a precipice, the bloody and mangled 
body of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

It seemed strange that such an 
excellent rider should have met with 
such a fate. There might have been some 
doubt as to its being an accident, had it 
not been for the explanation given by 
the grooms.” 

“The duke was riding an exceedingly 
vicious beast,” said these men. “She 
was always taking fright and shying at 
everything.” 

The following week Jean Lacheneur 
left the neighborhood. 

The conduct of this singular man had 
caused much comment. When Marie- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


231 


Anne died, he at first refused his inheri- 
tance. 

U I wish nothing that came to her 
through Chanlouineau,” he said every- 


Maurice greatly diminished the chance of 

success. 

Unlike Jean, he was determined to 
guard religiously the honor of the dead ; 


where, thus calumniating the memory of, and he had made his friends promise 

hlS Sister as he hlld Palnnnniatpd Vipr wVipiv flint IVTovip- A nno’c n'tmo olirmlrl nrvl 


his sister as he had calumniated her when 
alive. 

Then, after a short absence, and with- 
out any apparent reason, he suddenly 
changed his mind. 

He not only accepted the property, but 
made all possible haste to obtain posses- 
sion of it. He made many excuses; and, 
if one might believe him, lie was not act- 
ing in his own interest, but merely con- 
forming to the wishes of his deceased 
sister ; and he declared that not a penny 
would go into his pockets. 

This much is certain, as soon as he ob- 
tained legal possession of the estate, he 
sold all the property, troubling himself 
but little in regard to the price he re- 
ceived, provided the purchasers paid cash. 

He reserved only the furniture of the 
sumptuously adorned chamber at the 
Borderie. These articles he burned. 

This strange act was the talk of 


the 


strange 
neighborhood. 

“The poor young man has lost his rea- 


son !” was the almost universal opinion. 

And those who doubted it, doubted it 
nh longer when it became known that 
Jean Lacheneur had formed an engage- 
ment with a company of strolling players 
who stopped at Montaignac for a few 
days. 

But the young man had not wanted for 
good advice and kind friends. M. d’Es- 
corval and the abbe had exerted all their 
eloquence to induce him to return to 
Paris, and complete his studies ; but in 
vain. 

The necessity for concealment no 
longer existed, either in the case of the 
baron or the priest. 

Thanks to Mart'al de Sairmeuse they 
were now installed, the one in the pres- 
bytery, the other at Escorval, as in days 
gone by. 

Acquitted at his new trial, restored to 
the possession of his property, reminded 
of his frightful fall only by a very slight 
lameness, the baron would have deemed 
himself a fortunate man, had it not been 
for his great anxiety on his son’s account. 

Poor Maurice ! his heart was broken 
by the sound of the clods of earth fall- 
ing upon Marie-Anne's coffin; and his 
very life now seemed dependent upon the 
hope of finding his child. 

Assured of the powerful assistance of 
Abbe Midon, he had confessed all to his 
father, and confided his secret to Cor 
poral Bavois, who was an honored guest 
at Escorval ; and these devoted friends 
had promised him all possible aid. 

The task was very difficult, however, 
and certain resolutions on the part of 


that Marie-Anne’s name should not be 
mentioned in prosecuting the search. 

“We shall succeed all the same,” said 
the abbe, kindly; “with time and pa- 
tience any mystery can be solved.” 

He divided the department into a cer- 
tain number of districts ; then one of the 
little band went each day from house to 
house questioning the inmates, but not 
without extreme caution, for fear of 
arousing suspicion, for a peasant becomes 
intractable at once if his suspicions are 
aroused. 

But the weeks went by, and the quest 
was fruitless. Maurice was deeply dis- 
couraged. 

“My child died on coming into the 
world,” he said, again and again. 

But the abbe reassured him. 

“I am morally certain that such was 
not the case,” he replied. “I know, by 
Marie-Anne’s absence, the date of her 
child’s birth. I saw her after her recov- 
ery; she was comparatively gay and 
smiling. Draw your own conclusions.” 

“And yet there is not a nook or corner 
for miles around which we have not ex- 
plored.” 

“True; but we must extend the circle 
of our investigations.” 

The priest, now, was only striving to 
gain time, knowing full well that it is 


the sovereign balm for all sorrows. 

His confidence, which had been very 
great at first, had been sensibly dimin- 
ished by the responses of an old woman, 
who passed for one of the greatest gos- 
sips in the community. 

Adroitly interrogated, the worthy 
dame replied that she knew nothing of 
such a child, but that there must be one 
in the neighborhood, since it was the 
third time she had been questioned on 
the subject. 

Intense as was his surprise, the abbe 
succeeded in hiding it. 

He set the old gossip to talking, and 
after a two hours’ conversation, he ar- 
rived at the conclusion that two persons 
beside Maurice were searching for Marie- 
Anne’s chi d. 

Why, with what aim, and who these 
persons could be, the abbe was unable to 
ascertain. 

Ah ! rascals have their uses after all,” 
he thought. “If we only had a man like 
Chupin to set upon the track !” 

But the old poacher was dead, and his 
eldest son — the one who knew Blanche 
de Courtornieu’s secret — was in Paris. 

Only the widow and the second son re- 
mained in Sairmeuse. 

They had not, as yet, succeeded in dis- 
covering the twenty thousand francs, 


282 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


but the fever for gold was burning in 
their veins, and they persisted in their 
search. From morning until night the 
mother and son toiled on. until the earth 
around their hut had been explored to 
the depth of six feet. 

A word dropped by a peasant one day 
put an end to these researches. 

“Really, my boy,” he said, addressing 
young Chupin, “I did not suppose you 
were such a fool as to persist in hunting 
birds’ nests after the birds have flown. 
Your brother, who is in Paris, can un- 
doubtedly tell you where the treasure 
was concealed.” 

The younger Chupin uttered the fierce 
roar of a wild beast. 

“Holy Virgin ! you are right!” he ex- 
claimed. “Wait until I get money enough 
to take me to Paris, and we will see.” 


CHAPTER XCIII. 

Martial de Sairmeuse’s unexpected 
visit to the Chateau de Courtornieu had 
alarmed Aunt Medea even more than 
Blanche. 

In ten seconds, more ideas passed 
through her brain than had visited it for 
ten years. 

She saw the gendarmes at the chateau ; 
she saw her niece arrested, incarcerated 
in the Montaignac prison, and brought 
before the Court of Assizes. 

If this were all she had to fear ! But 
suppose she, too, were compromised, 
suspected of complicity, dragged before 
the judge, and even accused of being the 
sole culprit ! 

Finding the suspense intolerable, she 
left her room ; and, stealing on tiptoe to 
the great drawing-room, she applied her 
ear to the door of the little blue salon , in 
which Blanche and Martial were seated. 

The conversation which she heard con- 
vinced her that her fears were ground- 
less. 

She drew a long breath, as if a mighty 
burden had been lifted from her breast. 
But a new idea, which was to grow, 
flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken 
root in her brain. 

When Martial left the room, Aunt 
Medea at once opened the communicating 
door and entered the blue saZon, thus 
avowing that she had been a listener. 

Twenty-four hours earlier she would 
not have dreamed of committtng such an 
enormity. 

“Well, Blanche, we were frightened at 
nothing,” she exclaimed. 

Blanche did not reply. 

She was deliberating, forcing herself 
to weigh the probable consequences of 
all these events which had succeeded each 
other with such marvelous rapidity. 


“Perhaps the hour of my revenge is 
almost here,” murmured Blanche, as if 
communing with herself. 

“What do you say?” inquired Aunt 
Meda, with evident curiosity. 

“I say, aunt, that in less than a month 
I shall be Marquise de Sairmeuse in 
reality as well as in name. My husband 
will return to me, and then — oh ! then.” 

“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hyp- 
ocritically. 

In her secret heart she had but little 
faith in this prediction, and whether it 
was realized or not mattered little to her. 

“Still another proof that your jealousy 
led you astr;iy; and that — that what you 
did at the Borderie was unnecessary ;” she 
said, in that low tone that accomplices 
alwaj^s use in speaking of their crime. 

Such had been the opinion of Blanche; 
but she now shook her head, and g oomily 
replied : 

“You are wrong ; that which took place 
at the Borderie has restored my husband 
to me. I understand it all, now. It is 
true that Marie-Anne was not Martial's 
mistress; but Martial loved her. He 
loved her, and the rebuffs which he re- 
ceived only increased his passion. It was 
for her sake that he abandoned me ; and 
never, while she lived, would he have 
thought of me. His emotion on seeing 
me was the remnant of the emotion which 
had b°en awakened by another. His ten- 
derness was only the expression of his 
sorrow. Whatever happens, I shall have 
only her leavings — what she has dis- 
dained!” the young marquise added bit- 
terly; and her eyes flashed, and she 
stamped her foot in ungovernable anger. 
And shall I regret what I have done!” 
she exclaimed ;**never ! — no never.” 

From that mome it. she was herself 
again, brave and determined. 

But horrible fears assailed her when 
the inquest began. 

Officials came from Montaignac charged 
with investigating the affair. They ex- 
amined a host of witnesses, and there was 
even talk of sending to Paris for one of 
those detectives skilled in unravelling 
all the mysteries of crime. 

Aunt Medea was half c azed with 
terror; and her fear was so apparent that 
it caused Blanche great anxiety. 

“You will end by betraying us,” she 
remarked, one evening. 

“Ah! my terror is beyond my control.” 

“If that is the case, do not leave your 
room.” 

“It would be more prudent, certainly.” 

“You can say that you are not we:l; 
your meals shall be served in your own 
apartment.” 

Aunt Medea’s face brightened. In her 
inmost heart, she was enraptured. To 
have her meals served in her own room, 
in her bed in the morning, and on a little 
table by the Are in the evening, had long 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


283 


been the ambition and the dream of the' 
poor dependent. But how to accomplish 
it ! Two or three times, being a trifle in- 
disposed, she had ventured to ask if her 
breakfast might be brought to her room, 
but her request had been harshly refused. 

4 If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will 
come down and take her place at the 
table as usual,” had been the response of 
Madame Blanche. 

To be treated in this way in a chateau 
were there were a dozen servants stand- 
ing about idle, was hard indeed. 

But now 

Every morning, in obediance to a for- 
mal order from Blanche, the cook came 
up to receive Aunt Medea’s commands ; 
s.ie was permitted to dictate the bill of 
fare each day, and to order the dishes 
that she preferred. 

These new joys awakened many strange 
thoughts in her mind, and dissipated 
much of the regret which she had felt for 
the crime at the Borderie. 

The inquest was the subject of all her 
conversation with her niece. They had 
all the latest information in regard to the 
facts developed by the investigation 
through the butler, who took a great in 
terest in such matters, and who had won 
the good will of the agents from Mon- 
taignac, by making them familiar with 
the contents of his wine cellar. 

Through him, Blanche and her aunt 
learned that suspicion pointed to the de- 
ceased Chupin. Had he not been seen 
prowling around the Borderie on the 
very evening that the crime was com- 
mitted? The testimony of the young 
peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur 
seemed decisive. 

The motive was evident, at least, every 
one thought so. Twenty persons had 
heard Chupin declare, with frightful 
oaths, that he should never be tranquil in 
mind while a Lacheneur was left upon 
earth. 

So that which might have ruined 
Blanche, saved her; and the death of the 
old poacher seemed really providential. 

Why should she suspect that Chupin 
had revealed her secret before his death? 

When the butler told her that the 
judges and the police agents had re- 
turned to Montaignac, she had great 
difficulty in concealing her joy. 

“There is no longer anything to fear,” 
she said to Aunt Medea. 

She had, indeed, escaped the justice of 
man. There remained the justice of God. 

A few weeks before, this thought of 
“the justice of God,” might, perhaps, 
have brought a smile to the lips of 
Madame Blanche. 

She then regarded it as an imaginary 
evil, designed to hold timorous spirits in 
check. 

On the morning that followed her 
crime, she almost shrugged her shoulders 


at the thought of Marie-Anne’s dying 
threats. 

She remembered her promise ; but she 
did not intend to fulfill it. 

She had considered the matter, and she 
saw tjie terrible risk to which she exposed 
herself if she endeavored to find the miss- 
ing child. 

‘•The father will be sure to discover 
it,” she thought. 

But she was to realize the power of her 
victim's threats that same evening. 

Overcome with fatigue, she retired to 
her room at an early hour, and instead of 
reading, as she was accustomed to do be- 
fore retiring, she extinguished her candle 
as soon as she had undressed, saying : 

“I must sleep.” 

But sleep had fled. Her crime was 
ever in her thoughts ; it rose before her 
in all its horror and atrocity. She knew 
that she was lying upon her bed, at 
Courtornieu ; and yet it seemed as if she 
was there in Chanlouineau’s house, pour- 
ing out poison, then watching its effects, 
concealed in the dressing-room. 

She was struggling against these 
thoughts ; she was exerting all her 
strength of will to drive away these ter- 
rible memories, when she thought she 
heard the key turn in the lock. She lifted 
her head from the pillow with a start. 

Then, by the uncertain light of her 
night-lamp, she thought she saw the 
door open slowly and noiselessly. Ma- 
rie-Anne entered — gliding in like a 
phantom. She seated hers If in an arm- 
chair near th • bed. Great tears were 
rolling down her cheeks, and she looked 
sadly, yet threateningly around her. 

The murderess hid her face under the 
bed-covers ; and her whole body was 
bathed in an icy perspiration. For her, 
this was not a mere apparition — it was a 
frightful reality. 

But her's was not a nature to submit un- 
resistingly to such an impression. Sue 
shook off the stupor that was creeping 
over her, and tried to reason with herself 
aloud, as if the sound of her voice would 
reassure her. 

“I am dreaming !” she said. “Do the 
dead return to life? Am I childish 
enough to be frightened by phantoms 
born of my own imaginations?” 

She said this, but the phantom did not 
disappear. 

She shut her eyes, but still she saw it 
through her closed eyelids— through the 
coverings which she had drawn up over 
her head, she saw it still. 

Not until daybreak did Madame Blanche 
fall asleep. . 

And it was the same the next night, 
and the night following that, and always 
and always ; and the terrors of each 
night were augmented by the terrors of 
the nights which had preceded it. 

During the day, in the bright sunshine, 


284 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


she regained her courage, and became 
skeptical again. Then she railed at her- 
self. 

u To be afraid of something that does 
not exist, is folly !” she said, vehemently. 
“To-night I will conquer my absurd 
weakness.” 

But when evening came all her brave 
resolution vanished, and the same fear 
seized her when night appeared with its 
cortege of spectres. 

It is true that Madame Blanche attrib- 
uted her tortures at night to the dis- 
quietude she suffered during the day. 

For the officials were at Sairmeuse, 
then, an 1 she trembled. A mere nothing 
night divert suspicion from Chupin and 
direct it towards her. What if some 
peasant had seen her with Chupin ? What 
if some trifling circumstance should 
furnish a clue which would lead straight 
to Courtornieu. 

“When the investigation is over, I shall 
forget,” she thought. 

It ended, but she did not forget. 

Darwin has said. 

“It is when their safety is assured that 
great criminals rea ly feel remorse.” 

Madame Blanche might have vouched 
for the truth of this assertion, made by 
the most profound thinker and closest 
observer of the age. 

And yet, the agony she was enduring 
did not make her abandon, for a single 
moment, the plan she had conceived on 
the day of Martial’s visit. 

She played her part so well, that deep- 
ly moved, almost repentant, he returned 
five or six times, and at last,' one day, he 
besought her to allow him to remain. 

But even the joy of this triumph did 
not restore her peace of mind. 

Between her and her husband rose that 
dread apparition ; and Marie-Anne’s dis- 
torted features were ever before her. She 
knew only too well that this heart-bro- 
ken man had no love to give her, and 
that she would never have the slighest 
influence over him. And to crown all, 
to her already intolerable sufferings was 
added another, more poignant than all 
the rest. 

Speaking one evening of Marie- Anne's 
death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke 
of his oath of vengeance. He deeply re- 
gretted that Chupin was dead, he re- 
marked, for he should have experienced 
an intense delight in making the wretch 
who murdered her die a lingering death 
in the midst of the most frightful tor- 
tures. 

He spoke with extreme violence and in 
a voice vibrant with his still powerful 
passion. 

And Blanche, in terror, asked herself 
what would be her fate if her husband 
ever discovered that she was the culprit 
— and he might discover it. 

She now began to regret that she had 


not kept the promise she had made to 
her victim; and she resolved to com- 
mence the search for Marie-Anne’s child. 

To do this effectually it was necessary 
for her to be in a large city — Paris, for 
example — where she could procure dis- 
creet and skillful ag nts. 

It was necessary to persuade Martial 
to remove to the capital. Aided by the 
Duke de Sairmeuse, she did not find this 
a very difficult task; and one morning, 
Madame Blanche, with a radiant face, 
announced to Aunt Medea : 

“Aunt, we leave just one week from 
to-day.” 


CHAPTER XCIV. 

Beset by a thousand fears and anxie- 
ties, Blanche had failed to notice that 
Aunt Medea was no longer the same. 

The change, it is true, had been grad- 
ual ; it had not struck the servants, but 
it was none the less positive and real, 
and it betrayed itself in numberless 
trifles. 

For example, though the poor depen- 
dent still retained her humble, resigned 
manner, she had lost, little by little, the 
servile fear that had showed itself in her 
every movement. She no longer trem- 
bled when any one addressed her. and 
there was occasionally a ring of inde- 
pendence in her voice. 

If visitors were present, she no longer 
kept herself modestly in the background, 
but drew forward her chair and took 
part in the conversation. At table, she 
allowed her preferences and her dislikes 
ro appear. On two or three occasions 
she had ventured to differ from her niece 
in opinion, and had even been so bold as 
to question the propriety of some of her 
orders. 

Once, Madame Blanche, on going out, 
asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; 
but the latter declared she had a cold, 
and remained at home. 

And, on the following Sunday, al- 
though Blanche did not wish to attend 
vespers, Aunt Medea declared her inten- 
tion of going ; and as it rained, she re- 
quested the coachman to harness the hor- 
ses to the carriage, which was done. 

All this was nothing, in appearance; 
in reality, it was monstrous, amazing. 
It was quite plain that the humble rela- 
tive was becoming bold, even audacious 
in her demands. 

As this departure, 'which her niece had 
just announced so gayly, had never been 
discussed before her, she was greatly 
surprised. 

“What I you are going away,” she 
repeated; “you are leaving Courtor- 
nieu?” 

“And without regret.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


283 


“To go where, pray?” 

“To Paris. We shall reside there: 
that is decided. That is the place for 
my husband. His name, his fortune, his 
talents, the favor of the king, assure 
him a high position there. He will 
re-purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and 
furnish it magnificently. We shall have 
a princely establishment.” 

All the torments of envy were visible 
upon Aunt Medea’s countenance. 

“And what is to become of me?” she 
asked, in plaintive tones. 

“You — aunt! You will remain here; 
you will be mistress of the chateau. A 
trustworthy person must remain to watch 
over my poor father. You will be hap- 
py and contented here, I hope.” 

But no ; Aunt Medea did not seem sat- 
isfied. 

“I shall never have courage to stay all 
alone in this great chateau,” she whined. 

“You foolish woman! will you not 
have the servants, the gardeners, and the 
concierge to protect you?” 

“That makes no difference. I am 
afraid of insane people. When the mar- 
quis began to rave and howl this even- 
ing, I felt as if I should go mad myself.” 

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. 

•“What do you wish, then?” she asked, 
in a still more sarcastic manner. 

“I thought — I wondered — if you would 
not take me with you.” 

“To Paris! You are crazy, I do 
believe. What would you do there?” 

“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech 
you, to do so !” 

“Impossible, aunt, impossible !” 

Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. 

“And what if I should tell you that I 
cannot remain here — that I dare not — 
that I should die !” 

A flush of impatience dyed the cheek 
of Madame Blanche. 

“You weary me beyond endurance,” 
she said, rudely. 

And with a gesture that increased the 
harshness of her words, she added : 

“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, 
there is nothing to prevent you from 
seeking a home more to your taste. You 
are free and of age.” 

“Aunt Medea turned very pale, and 
she bit her lips until the blood came. 

“That is to say,” she said, at- last, 
“you permit me to take my choice 
between dying of fear at Courtornieu 
and ending my days in a hospital. 
Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like 
you. I expected nothing less of you. 
Thanks !” 

She raised her head, and a dangerous 
light gleamed in her eyes. There was the 
hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she 
continued : 

“Very well! this decides me. I en- 
treated 3 011, and you brutally refused to 
heed my prayer, now I command and 1 


say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go 
with you to Paris — and I shall go. Ah ! 
it surprises you to hear poor, meek, 
much-abused Aunt Medea sp ak in this 
way. I have endured in silence for a 
long time, but I have rebelled at last. 
My life in this house has been a hell. It 
is true that you have given me shelter — 
that you have fed and lodged me ; but 
you have taken my entire life in ex- 
change. What servant ever endured what 
I have endured? Have you ever treated 
one of your maids as you have treated 
me — your own flesh and blood? And I 
have had no wages ; on the contrary, I 
was expected to be grateful since I lived 
by your tolerance. Ah ! you have made 
me pay dearly for the crime of being 
poor. How you have insulted me — hu- 
miliated me — trampled me under foot !” 

She paused. 

The bitter rancor which had been accu- 
mulating for years fairly choked her ; but 
after a moment, she resumed in a tone of 
intense irony: 

“You ask me what I would do in Paris? 
I, too, would enjoy myself. What will 
you do, yourself? You will go to court, 
to balls, and to the play — will you not? 
Very well, I will accompany you. I will 
attend these fetes. I will have handsome 
toilettes, I — poor Aunt Medea — who have 
never seen myself in anything but shabby 
black woolen dresses. Have you ever 
thought of giving me the pleasure of 
possessing a handsome dress? Yes, twice 
a year, perhaps, you have given me a 
black silk, recommending me to take 
good care of it. But it was not for my 
sake that you went to this expense. It 
was for your own sake, and in order that 
your poor relation should do honor to 
your generosity. You dressed me in it, 
as you sew gold lace upon the clothing of 
your lackeys, through vanity. And I 
endured all this; I made myself insignifi- 
cant and humble; buffeted upon one 
cheek, I offered the other. I must live — 
I must have food. And you, Blanche, 
how often, to make me subservient to 
your will, have j'ou said tome: ‘You 
will do thus-and-so, if you desire to re- 
main at Courtornieu?’ And I obeyed — I 
was forced to obey, since I knew not 
where to go. Ah ! you have abused me 
in every way; but now my turn has 
come!” 

Blanche was so amazed that she could 
not articulate a syllable. At last, in a 
scarcely audible voice, she faltered : 

“I do not understand you, aunt, I do 
not understand you.” 

The poor dependant shrugged her 
shoulders, as her niece had done a few 
moments before. 

“In that case,” said she, slowly, ”1 
may as well tell you that since you have, 
against my will, made me your accom- 
plice, we must share everything in com- 


286 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


mon. I share the danger ; I will share 
the pleasure. What if all should be dis- 
covered? Do you ever think of that? 
Yes, and that is why you are seeking 
diversion. Very well ! I also desire di- 
version. I shall go to Paris with you.” 

By a terrible effort Blanche had suc- 
ceeded in regaining her self-possession in 
some measure at least. 

“And if I should say no?” she respond- 
ed, coldly. 

“But you will not say no.* 

“And why, if you please?” 

“Because ” 

“Will you go to the authorities and de- 
nounce me?” 

Aunt Medea shook her head. 

“I am not such a fool,” she retorted. 
“I should only compromise myself. No, 
I shall not do that ; but I might, perhaps, 
tell your husband what happened at the 
Borderie.” 

Blanche shuddered. No threat was 
capable of moving her like that. 

•“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said 
she; “I promise it.” 

Then she added, gently : 

“But it is unnecessary to threaten me. 
You have been cruel, aunt, and at the 
same time, unjust. If you have been un- 
happy in our house, you alone are to 
blame. Why have you said nothing? I 
attributed your complaisance to your af- 
fection for me. How was I to know that 
a woman as quiet and modest as yourself 
longed for fine apparel. Confess that it 

was impossible. Had I known 

But rest easy, aunt, I will atone for my 
neglect.” 

And as aunt Medea, having ob- 
tained all she desired, stammered an 
excuse. 

“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let 
us forget this foolish quarrel. You for- 
give me, do you not?” 

And the two ladies embraced each 
other wi>th the greatest effusion, like two 
friends, united after a misunderstanding. 
But Aunt Medea was as far from being 
deceived by this mock reconciliation as 
the clear-sight ed Blanche. 

“It will be best for me to keep on the 
qui vive” thought the humble relative. 
*‘God only knows with what intense joy 
my dear niece would send me to join 
Marie- Anne.” 

Perhaps a similar thought flitted 
through the mind of Madame Blanche. 

She felt as a convict might feel on see- 
ing his most execrated enemy, perhaps 
the man who had betrayed him, fastened 
to the other end of his chain. 

“I am bound now and forever to this 
dangerous and perfidious creature,” she 
thought. I am no longer my own mis- 
tress ; I belong to her. When she com- 
mands, I must obey. I must be the 
slave of her every caprice— and she has 


forty years of humiliation and servitude 
to avenge.” 

The prospect of such a life made her 
tremble; and she racked her brain to dis- 
cover some way of freeing herself from 
her detested companion. 

Would it be possible to inspire Aunt 
Medea with a desire to live independently 
in her own house, served by her own serv- 
ants ?” 

Might she succeed in persuading this 
silly old woman, who still longed for 
finery and ball-dresses, to marry? A 
handsome marriage portion will always 
attract a husband. 

But, in either case, Blanche w r ould re- 
quire money — a large sum of money, for 
whose use she would be accountable to 
no one. 

This conviction made her resolve to 
take possession of about two hundred 
and fifty thousand francs, in bank notes 
and coin, belonging to her father. 

This sum represented the savings of 
the Marquis de Courtornieu during the 
past three years. No one knew he had 
laid it aside, except his daughter ; and 
now that he had lost his reason, Blanche, 
who knew where the hoard was con- 
cealed, could take it for her own use 
without the slightest danger. 

“With this,” she thought, “I can at 
any moment enrich Aunt Medea without 
having recourse to Martial.” 

After this little scene there was a con- 
stant interchange of delicate attentions 
and touching devotion between the two 
ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” 
and “my dearly beloved niece,” from 
morning until night ; and the gossips of 
the neighborhood, who had often com- 
mented upon the haughty disdain which 
Madame Blanche displayed in her treat- 
ment of her relative, would have found 
abundant food for comment had they 
known that Aunt Medea was protected 
from the possibility of cold by a mantle 
lined with costly fur, exactly like the 
marquise's own, and that she made the 
journey, not in the large Berlin, with the 
servants, but in the post-chaise with the 
Marquis and Marquise de Sairmeuse. 

The change was so marked that even 
Martial remarked it. and as soon as he 
found himself alone with his wife, he 
exclaimed, in a tone of good-natured 
raillery : 

. “What is the meaning of all this devo- 
tion? We shall finish'by encasing this 
precious aunt in cotton, shall we not?” 

Blanche trembled, and flushed a little. 

“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” 
said she. “I never can forget all the 
affection and devotion she lavished upon 
me when I was so unhappy.” 

It was such a plausible explanation 
that Martial took no further notice of 
the matter, for his mind ju t then was 
fully occup ed. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


2S7 


The agent, whom he had sent to Paris' 
in advance, to purchase, if possible, the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse, had written him to 
make all possible haste, as there, was 
some difficulty about concluding the bar- 
gain. 

“Plague take the fellow !” said the 
marquis, angrily, on receiving this news. 
“He is quite stupid enough to let this 
opportunity, for which we have been 
waiting ten years, slip through his 
fingers. I shall find no pleasure in Paris 
if I cannot own our old residence.” 

He was so impatient to reach Paris 
that, on the second day of their journey, 
he declared if he were alone he would 
travel all night. 

“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously ; 
“I do not feel fatigued in the least, and a 
night of travel does not appall me.” 

They did travel all night, and the next 
day, about nine o’clock," they alighted at 
the Hotel Meurice. 

Martial scarcely took time to eat his 
breakfast. 

“I must go and see my agent at once,” 
he said, as he hurried off. “I will soon 
be back.” 

He reappeared in about two hours, 
pleased and radiant. 

“My agent was a simpleton,” he ex- 
claimed. “He was afraid to write me 
that a man, upon whom the conclusion of 
the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty 
thousand francs. He shall have it in wel- 
come.” 

Then, in a tone of gallantry, which he 
always used in addressing his wife, he 
said : 

“It only remains for me to sign the 
paper; but I will not do so unless, the 
house suits you. If you are not too tired, 
I would like you to visit it at once. Time 
presses, and we have many competitors.” 

This visit was, of course, one of pure 
form; but Madame Blanche would have 
been hard to please if she had not been 
satisfied with this mansion, one of the 
most magnificent in Paris, with an en- 
trance on the Rue de Grenelle, and large 
gardens shaded with superb trees, and 
extending to the Rue de Varennes. 

Unfortunately, this superb dwel’ing 
had not been occupied for several years, 
and required many repairs. 

“It will take at least six months to re- 
store it.” said Martial, “perhaps more. 
It is true that they might in three months, 
perhaps, render a portion of it very com- 
fortable.” 

“It would be living in one’s own house, 
at least,” approved Blanche, divining her 
husband’s wishes. 

“Ah! then you agree with me! In 
that case, you may rest assured that I 
will expedite matters as much as possi- 
ble.” 

In spite, or rather by reason of his im- 
mense fortune, the Marquis de Sairmeuse 


knew that a person is never so well, nor 
so quickly served, as when he serves 
himself, go he resolved to take the matter 
into his own hands. He conferred with 
architects, interviewed contractors, and 
hurried on the workmen. 

As soon as he was up in the morning 
he started out without waiting for break- 
fast, and seldom returned until dinner. 

Although Blanche was compelled to 
pass most of her time within doors, on 
account of the bad weather, she was not 
inclined to complain. Her journey, the 
unaccustomed sights and sounds of Paris, 
the novelty of life in a hotel, all com- 
bined to distract her thoughts from her- 
self. She forgot her fears, a sort of 
haze enveloped the terrible scene at the 
Borderie; the clamors of conscience sank 
into faint whispers. 

The past seemed fading away, and she 
was beginning to entertain hopes of a 
new and better life, when one day a serv- 
ant entered, and said : 

“There is a man below who wishes to 
speak with madame.” 


CHAPTER XCV. • 

Half reclining upon a sofa Madame 
Blanche was listening to a new book 
which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, 
and she did not even raise her head as the 
servant delivered his message. 

“A man?” she asked, carelessly; “what 
man?” 

She was expecting no one ; it must be 
one of the laborers employed by Martial. 

“I cannot inform madame,” replied the 
servant. “He is quite a young man; is 
dressed like a peasant, and is perhaps 
seeking a place.” 

“It is probably the marquis whom he 
desires to see.” 

“Madame will excuse me, but he said 
particularly that he desired to speak to 
her.” 

“Ask his name and his business, then. 
Go on, aunt,” she added: “we have been 
inetrrupted in the most interesting por- 
tion.” 

But Aunt Medea had not time to fin- 
ish the page when the servant reap- 
peare 1. 

“The man says madame will under- 
stand his business when she hears his 
name” 

“And his name?” 

“Chupin.” 

It was as if a bomb-shell had exploded 
in the room. 

Aunt Medea, with a shriek dropped 
her book, and sank back, half fainting, 
in her chair. 

Blanche sprang up with a face as col- 
orless as her white cashmere peignoir , 
her eyes troubled, her lips trembling. 


28S 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Chup'n ! ” she repeated, as if she 
hoped the servant would tell her she had 
not understood him correctly; “Cho- 
pin!” 

Then angrily. 

u Tell this man that I will not see him, 

I will not see him, do you hear?” 

But before the servant had time to bow 
respectfully and retire, the young mar- 
quise changed her mind. 

“One moment,” said she; u on reflec- 
tion I think I will see him. Bring him 
up.” 

The servant withdrew, and the two 
ladies looked at each other in silent con- 
sternation. 

“It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” fal- 
tered Blanche, at last. 

“‘Undoubtedly ; but what does he 
desire.” 

“Money, probably.” 

Aunt Medea lifted her eyes to Heaven. 

“God grant that he knows nothing of 
your meetings with his father ! Blessed 
Jesus! what if he should know.” 

“You are not going to despair in 
advance! We shall know all in a few 
moments. Pray be calm. Turn your 
back to us ; look out into the street : do 
not let him see your face. But why is 
he so long in coming?” 

Blanche was not deceived. It was 
Chupin’s eldest son; the one to whom 
the dying poacher had confided his 
secret. 

Since his arrival in Paris he had been 
running the streets from morning until 
evening, inquiring everywhere and of 
everybody the address of the Marquis de 
Sairmeuse. At last he discovered it; 
and he lost no time in presenting him- 
self at the Hotel Meurice. 

He was now awaiting the result of his 
application at the entrance of the Hotel, 
where he stood whistling, with his hands 
in his pockets, when the servant 
returned, saying : 

“She consents to see you; follow me.” 

Chupin obeyed ; but the servant, great- 
ly astonished, and on fire with curiosity, 
loitered by the waj r in the hope of ob- 
taining some explanation from this coun- 
tiy youth. 

“I do not say it to flatter you, my 
boy.” he remarked, “but your name pro- 
duced a great effect upon madame.” 

The prudent peasant carefully con- 
cealed the joy he felt on receiving this 
information. 

“How does it happen that she knows 
you?” pursued the servant. “Are you 
both from the same place?” 

*T am her foster-brother.” 

The servant did not believe a word of 
this response; but they had reached the 
apartment of the marquis, he opened the 
door and ushered Chupin into the room. 

The peasant had prepared a little story 
in advance, but he was so dazzled by the 


magnificence around him that he stood 
motionless with staring eyes and gaping 
mouth. His wonder was increased by a 
large mirror opposite the door, in which 
he could survey himself from head to 
foot, : nd by the beautiful flowers on the 
carpet, which he feared to crush beneath 
his heavy shoes. 

After a moment, Madame Blanche de- 
cided to break the silence. 

“What do you wish?” she demanded. 

With many circumlocutions Chupin 
explained that he had been obliged to 
leave Sairmeuse on account of the numer- 
ous enemies he had there, that he had 
been unable to find his father’s hidden 
treasure, and that he was consequently 
without resources. 

‘ Enough !” interrupted Mme. Blanche. 
Then in a manner not in the least friend- 
ly, she continued: “I do not understand 
why you should apply to me. You and 
all the rest of your family have anything 
but an enviable reputation in Sairmeuse ; 
still, as you are from that part of the 
country, I am willing to aid you a little 
on condition that you do not apply to me 
again.” 

Chupin listened to this homily with a 
half cringing, half impudent air; when 
it was finished he lifted his head, and 
said, proudly : 

“I do not ask for alms.” 

“What do you ask then?” 

“My dues.” 

The heart of Madame Blanche sank, 
and yet she had courage to cast a glance 
of disdain upon the speaker, and said: 

“Ah! do I owe you anything?” 

“You owe me nothing personally, 
mad * ae; but you owe a heavy debt to 
my deceased father. In whose service 
did he perish? Poor old man ! he loved 
you devotedly. His last words were of 
you. ‘A terrible thing has just happened 
at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he, “The 
young marquise hated Marie- Anne, and 
she has poisoned her. Had it not been 
for me she would have been lost. I am 
about to die ; let the whole blame rest 
upon me; it will not hurt me. and it will 
save the young lady. And afterwards 
she will reward you; and as long as you 
keep the secret you will want for noth- 
ing.’ ” 

Great as was his impudence, he paused, 
amazed by the perfectly composed face 
of the listener. 

In the presence of such wonderful dis- 
simulation he almost doubted the truth 
of his father’s story. 

The courage and heroism displa} r ed by 
the marquise were really wonderful. She 
felt if she yielded once, she would for- 
ever be at the mercy of this wretch, as 
she was already at the mercy of Aunt 


Medea. 

•“In other words,” said she, calmly, 
“‘you accuse me of the murder of Mlie. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


289 


Lacheneur; and yoa threaten to de-| 
nounce me if I do not yield to your de- 
mands.” 

Chupin nodded his head in acquies- 
cence. 

‘•Very well!” said the marquise ; since 
this is the case — go !” 

It seemed, indeed, as if she would, by 
her audacity, win this dangerous game 
upon which her future peace depended. 
Chfipin, greatly abashed, was standing 
there undecided what course to pursue 
when Aunt Medea, who AVas listening by 
the window, turned in affright, crying : 

“Blanche! your husband — Martial ! 
He is coming !” 

The game was lost. Blanche saw her 
husband entering, .finding Chupin, con- 
versing with him. and discovering all! 

Her brain whirled ; she yielded. 

She hastily thrust her purse in Chu- 
pin's hand and dragged him through an 
inner door and to the servants’ staircase. 

“Take this,” she said, in a hoarse 
whisper. “I will see you again. And 
not a word — not a word to my husband, 
remember !” 

She had been wise to yield in timd. 
When she re-entered the salon , she found 
Martial there. 

His head was bowed upon his breast ; 
he held an open letter in his hand. 

He looked up when his wife entered 
the room, and she saw a tear in his ej^e. 

“What has happened?” she faltered. 

Martial did not remark her emotion. 

“My father is dead. Blanche,” he re- 
plied. 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse! My God! 
hoAvdid it happen?” 

“He was thrown from his horse, in the 
forest, near the Sanguille rocks.” 

“Ah! it was there where my poor 
father was nearly murdered.” 

“Yes, it is the very place.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

Martial's affection for his father had 
not been A r ery deep, and he was well 
aAvare that his father had but little love 
for him. He was astonished at the bitter 
grief he felt on hearing of his death/ 

“From this letter, which Avas forward- 
ed by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he 
continued, “I judge that everybody be- 
lieves it to have been an accident ; but 
I— I ” 

“Well?” 

“I believe he Avas murdered.” 

An exclamation of horror escaped 
Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale. 

“Murdered!” she whispered. 

“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the 
murderer. Oh ! I am not deceived. The 
murderer of my father is the same man 
who attempted to assassinate the Mar- ] 
quis de Courtoi nieu ” 

“Jean Lacheneur!” 

Martial gravely boAved his head. It 
was his only reply. ] 


| “And you will not denounce him? 
You will not demand justice?” 

Martiai's face grew more and more 
gloomy. 

“What good would it do?” he replied. 
“I have no material proofs to give, and 
justice demands incontestable evidence.” 

Then, as if communing with his own 
thoughts, rather than addressing his 
wife, he said, despondently : 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse and the 
Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what 
they have sown. The blood of mur- 
dered innocence always calls for ven- 
geance. Sooner or later, the guilty 
must expiate their crimes.’’ 

Blanche shuddered. Each word found 
an echo in her OAvn soul. Had he in- 
tended his words for her. he would not 
have expressed himself differently. 

“Martial,” said she, trying to arouse 
him f i om his gloomy reverie, “Martial.” 

lie did not seem to hear her, and, in 
the same tone, he continued : 

“These Lacheneurs Aveie happy and 
honored before our arrival at Sairmeuse. 
Their conduct was above all praise; their 
probity amounted to heroism. We might 
have made them our faithful and devo- 
ted friends. It was our duty, as A\ r ell as 
in our interests, to have done so/ We 
did not understand this ; Ave humiliated, 
ruined, exasperated them. It Avas a fault 
for which Ave must atone. Who knows 
but. in Jean Lacheneur' s place, I should 
have done what he has done?” 

He Avas silent for a moment; then, 
Avith one of those sudden inspirations 
that sometimes enable one almost to read 
the future, he resumed : 

“I know Jean Lacheneur. I, alone, 
•can fathom his hatred, and I knoAv that 
he lives only in the hope of vengeance. 
It is true that we are very high and he 
is very Ioav. but that matters little. We 
have eA r erything to fear. Our millions 
form a rampart around us, but he will 
know how to open a breach. And no 
precautions will save us. At the fery 
moment Avhen Ave feel ourselves secure, 
he will be ready to strike. What he will 
attempt, I know not ; but his will be a 
terrible revenge. Remember my words, 
Blanche, if ruin ever threatens our house, 
it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.” 

Aunt Medea and her niece Avere too 
horror-stricken to articulate a word, and 
for five minutes no sound broke the still- 
ness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as 
he paced up and doAvn the room. 

At last he paused before his Avife. 

“I have just ordered post-horses. You 
Avill excuse me for leaving you here alone. 
I must go to Sairmeuse at once. I shall 
not be absent more than a Aveek.” 

He departed from Paris a few hours 
later, and Blanche Avas left a prey to the 
most intolerable anxiety. She suffered 
more now than during the days that im- 


19 


200 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


mediately followed her crime. It was 
not against phantoms she was obliged 
to protect herself now: Chupin existed, 
and his voice, even if it were not as terri- 
ble as the voice of conscience, might 
make itself heard at any moment. 

If she had known where to find him, 
she would have gone to him. and endeav- 
ored. by the payment of a large sum of 
money, to persuade him to leave France. 

But Chupin had left the hotel without 
giving her his address. 

The gloomy apprehension expressed 
by Martial increased the fears of the 
young marquise. The mere sound of 
the name Lacheneur made her shrink 
with terror. She could not rid herself 
of the idea that Jean Lacheneur suspected 
her guilt, and that he was watching her. 

Her wish to find Marie-Anne’s infant 
was stronger than ever. 

It seemed to her that the child might 
be a protection to her some day. But 
where could she find an agent in whom 
she could confide? 

At last she remembered that she had 
heard her father speak of a detective by 
the name of Chefteux, an exceedingly 
shrewd fellow, capable of anything, even 
honesty if he were well paid. 

The man was really a miserable wretch, 
one of Fouche's vilest instruments, who 
had served and betia3 r ed all parties, and 
who, at last, had been convicted of per- 
jury, but had somehow managed L o escape 
punishment. 

After his dismissal from the police 
force, Chef eux had founded a bureau of 
private information. 

After several inquiries. Madame 
Blanche discovered that he lived in the 
PI ace Dauphine ; and she determined to 
take advantage of her husband’s absence 
to pay the detective a visit. 

One morning she donned her simplest 
dress, and, accompanied by Aunt Medea, 
repaired to the house of Chefteux. 

He was then about thirty-four yeirs of 
age. a man of medium height, of inoffen- 
sive mien, and who affected an unvarying 
good humor. 

He invited his clients into a nicely fur- 
nished drawing-room, and Madame 
Blanche at once began telling him that 
she was married, and living in the Bue 
Saint-Denis, that one of her sisters, who 
had lately died, had been guilty of an in- 
discretion, and that she was ready to 
make any sacrifice to find this sister’s 
child, etc., etc. A long story, which she 
had prepared in advance, and which 
sounded very plausible. 

Chefteux did not believe a word of it, 
however; for, as soon as it was ended, he 
tapped her familiarly on the shoulder, 
and said : 

“In short, my dear, we have had our 
little escapades before our marriage.” 


She shrank back as if from some ven- 
omous reptile. 

To be treated thus ! she — a Courtomieu 
— Duchesse de Sairmeuse ! 

“I think you are laboring under a 
wrong impression,” she said, haughtily. 

He ma e haste to apologize; but while 
listening to further details given him by 
the young lady, he thought: 

“What an eye! what a voice! — they 
are not suited to a denizen of the Saint- 
Denis !” 

His suspicions were confirmed by the 
reward of twenty thousand francs, which 
Madame Blanche imprudently promised 
him in case of success, and by the five 
hundred francs which she paid in advance. 

“And where shall I have the honor of 
addres ing my communications to you, 
mad ime?” he inquired. 

“Nowhere,” replied the young lady. 
“I shall be passing here from time to 
time, and I will call.” 

When they left the house, Chefteux 
followed them. 

“For once,” he thought, “I believe 
tjiat fortune smiles upon me.” 

.To discover the name and rank of his 
new clients was but child’s play to 
Fouche’s form r pupil. 

His task was all the easier since they 
had no suspicion whatever of his designs. 
Madame Blanche, who had heard his 
powers of discernment so highly praised, 
was confident of success. 

All the way back to the hotel she was 
congratulating herself upon the step she 
had taken. 

“In less than a month,” she ,said to 
Aunt Medea, “we shall have the child; 
and it will be a protection to us.” 

But the following week she realized 
the extent of her imprudence. On visit- 
ing Chefteux again, she was received 
with such marks of respect that she saw 
at once she was known. 

She made an attempt to deceive him, 
but the detective checked heh 

“First of all,” he said, with a good- 
humored smile. “I ascertain the identity 
of the persons who honor me with their 
confidence. It is a proof of my ability, 
which I give, gratis. But inadame need 
have no fears. I am discreet by nature 
and by profession. Many lad.es of the 
highest ranks are in the position of 
Madame la Duchesse!” 

So Chefteux still believed that the 
Duchess de Sairmeuse was searching 
for her own child. 

She did not try to convince him to the 
contrary. It was better that he should 
believe this than suspect the truth. 

The condition of Madame Blanche was 
now truly pitiable. She found herself 
entangled in a net, and each movement, 
far from freeing her, tightened the 
meshes around her. 

Three persons knew the secret that 


I 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


291 


threatened her life and honor. Under 
these circumstances, how could she hope 
to keep that secret inviolate? She was, 
moreover, at the mercy of three unscrup- 
ulous masters ; and before a word, or a 
gesture, or a look from them, her haugh- 
ty spirit was compelled to bow in meek 
subservience. 

_ And her time was no longer at her own 
disposal. Martial had returned ; and 
they had taken up their abode at the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse. 

The young duchess was now compelled 
to live under the scrutiny of fifty servants 
— of forty enemies, more or less, in- 
terested in watching her, in criticizing 
her every act, and in discovering her in- 
most thoughts. 

Aunt Medea, it is true, was of great 
assistance to her. Blanche purchased a 
dress for her, whenever she purchased 
one for herself, took her about with her 
on all occasions, and the humble relative 
expressed her satisfaction in the most 
enthusiastic terms, and declared her 
willingness to do anything for her bene- 
factress. 

Nor did Chefteux give Madame Blanche 
much more annoyance. Every three 
months he presented a memorandum of 
the expenses of investigations, which 
usually amounted to about ten thousand 
francs; and, so long as she paid him it 
was plain that he would be silent. 

He had given her to understand, how- 
ever. that he should expect an annuity of 
twenty-four thousand francs; and once, 
when Madame Blanche remarked that he 
must abandon the search, if nothing had 
been discovered at the end of two years : 

‘‘Never,” he replied: ‘T shall continue 
the search as long as I live.” But Chu- 
pin, unfortunately, remained; and he 
was a constant terror. 

She had been compelled to give him 
twenty thousand francs, to begin with. 

‘‘He declared that his younger brother 
had come to Paris in pursuit of him, ac- 
cusing him of having stolen their father’s 
hoard, and demanding his share with his 
dagger in his hand. 

There had been a battle, and it was 
with a head bound up in a blood-stained 
linen, that Chupin made his appearance 
before Madame Blanche. 

“Give me the sum that the old man 
buried, and I will allow my brother to 
think that I had stolen it. It is not very 
pleasant to be regarded as a thief, when 
one is an honest man, but I will bear it 
for your sake. If you refuse, I shall be 
corapelle i to tell him where I have ob- 
tained my money, and how.” 

If he possessed all the vices, depravity, 
and pold-blooded perversity of his fath- 
er, this wretch had inherited neither his 
intelligence nor his finesse. 

Instead of taking the precautions 
which his interest required, he seemed to! 


find a brutal pleasure in compromising 
the duchess. 

He was a constant visitor at the hotel 
de Sairmeuse. He came and went at all 
hours, morning, noon, and night, with- 
out troubling himself in the least about 
Martial. 

And the servants were amazed to see 
their haughty mistress unhesitatingly 
| leave everything at the call of this sus- 
picious-looking character, who smelled 
so strongly of tobacco and vile brandy. 

One evening, while a grand entertain- 
ment was in progress at the Hotel de 
Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, half 
drunk, and imperiously ordered the ser- 
vants to go and tell Madame Blanche 
that he was there, and that he was wait- 
ing for her. 

She hastened to him in her magnifi- 
cent evening-dress, her face white with 
rage and shame beneath her tiara of dia- 
monds. And when, in her exasperation, 
she refused to give the wretch what he 
demanded : 

“That is to say, I am to starve while 
your are revelling here!” he exclaimed. 
“I am not such a fool. Give me money, 
and instantly, or I will tell all I know 
here, and now !” 

What could she do? She was obliged 
to yield, as she had always done before. 

And yet he grew more and more insa- 
tiable every day. Money remained in 
his pockets no longer than w^ater re- 
mains in a sieve. But he did not think 
of elevating his vices to the proportions 
of the fortune which he squandered. 
He did not even provide himself with 
decent clothing; from his appearance 
one w r ould have supposed him a beggar, 
and his companions were the vilest and 
most degraded of beings. 

One night he w^as arrested in a low den, 
and the police, surprised at seeing so 
much gold in the possession of such a 
beggarly-looking wretch, accused him of 
being a thief, lie mentioned the name 
of the Duchess de Sairmeuse. 

An inspector of the police presented 
himself at the Hotel de Sairmeuse the 
following morning. Martial, fortunate- 
ly, ivas in Vienna at the time. 

And Madame Blanche was forced to 
undergo the terrible humiliation of con- 
fessing that she had given a large sum of 
money to this man, whose family she had 
known, and who, she added, had once 
rendered her an important service. 

Sometimes her tormentor 
tactics. 

For example, he declared that he dis- 
liked to come to the Hotel de Sairmeuse, 
that the servants treated him as if he 
w'ere a mendicant, that after this he 
would write. 

And in a day or two there v r ould come 
a letter bidding her bring such a sum, to 
such a place, at such an hour. 


changed his 


293 


MONSIEUR LECOQ, 


And the proud duchess was always] 
punctual at the rendezvous. 

There was constantly some new inven- 
tion, as if he found an intense delight in 
proving his power and in abusing it. 

He had met, Heaven knows where ! a 
certain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took 
a violent fancy, and although she was 
much older than himself, he wished to 
marry her. Madame Blanche paid for 
the wedding feast. 

Again he announced his desire of es- 
tablishing himself in business, having re- 
solved, he said, to live by his own exer- 
tions. He purchased the stock of a wine 
merchant, which the duchess paid for, 
and which he drank in no time. 

His wife gave birth to a child, and 
Madame de Sairineuse must pay for the 
baptism as she had paid for the wedding, 
only too happy that Chupin did not re- 
quire her to stand as god-mother to little 
Polyte. He had entertained this idea at 
first. 

On two occas’ons Madame Blanche ac- 
companied her husband to Vienna and to 
London, whither he went charged with 
important diplomatic missions. She re- 
mained three years in foreign lands. 

Each week during all that time she re- 
ceived one letter, at least, from Chupin. 

Ah! many a time she envied the lot of 
her victim ! What was Marie- Anne's 
death compared with the life she led ! 

Her sufferings were measured by years, 
Marie-Anne's by minutes ; and she said 
to herself, again and again, that the tor- 
ture of poison could not be as intolerable 
as her agony. 


CHAPTER XCVI. 

How was it that Martial had failed to 
discover or to suspect this state of affairs? 

A moment’s reflection will explain this 
fact which is so extraordinary in appear- 
ance, so natural in reality. 

The head of a family, whether he 
dwells in an attic or in a palace, is al- 
ways the last to know what is going on 
in his home. What everybody else knows 
he does not even suspect. The master 
* often sleeps while his house is on fire. 
Some terrible catastrophe — an explosion 
— is necessary to arouse him from his 
fancied security. 

The life that Martial led was likely to 
prevent him from arriving at the truth. 
He was a stranger to his wife. His man- 
ner toward her was perfect, full of defer- 
ence and chivalrous courtesy ; but they 
had nothing in common except a name 
and certain interests. 

Each lived his own life. They met 
only at dinner, or at the entertainments 
which they gave and which were consid- 
ered the most brilliant in Paris society. 


j The duchess had her own apartments, 
[her servants, her carriages, her horses, 
her own table. 

At twenty-five, Martial, the last de- 
scendant of the great house of Sairmeuse 
— a man upon whom destiny had appar- 
ently lavished every blessing — the pos- 
sessor of youth, unbounded wealth, 
and a brilliant intellect, succumbed be- 
neath the burden of an incurable despon- 
dency and ennui. 

The death of Marie-Anne had destroyed 
all his hopes of happiness ; and realizing 
the emptiness of his life, he did his best 
to fill the void with bustle and excitment. 
He threw himself headlong into politics, 
striving to find in power and in satisfied 
ambition some relief from his despon- 
dency. 

It is only just to say that Madame 
Blanche had remained superior to circum- 
stances ; and that she had played the role 
of a happy, contented woman with con- 
summate skill. 

Her frightful sufferings and anxiety 
never marred the haughty serenity of her 
face. She soon won a place as one of 
the queens of Parisian society; and 
plunged into dissipation with a sort of 
frenzy. Was she endeavoring to divert 
her mind? Did she hope to overpower 
thought by excessive fatigue? 

To Aunt Medea alone did Blanche re- 
veal her secret heart. 

“I am like a culprit who has been 
bound to the scaffold, and then aban- 
doned by the executioner who says, as 
he departs : “Live until the axe falls of 
its own accord.” 

And the axe might fall at any moment. 
A word, a trifle, an unlucky chance — she 
dared not say “a decree of Providence,” 
and Martial would know all. 

Such, in all its unspeakable horror, was 
the position of the beautiful and envied 
Duchess de Sairmeuse. “She must be 
perfectly hnppy,” said the world; but 
she felt herself sliding down the preci- 
pice to the awful depths below. 

Like a ship wrecked mariner clinging 
to a floating spar, she scanned the hori- 
zon with a despairing eye, and saw only 
angry and threatening clouds. 

Time, perhaps, might bring her some 
relief. 

Once it happened that six weeks went 
by, and she heard nothing from Chupin. 
A month and a half ! What had become 
of him? To Madame Blanche this silence 
was as ominous as the calm that precedes 
the storm. 

A line in a newspaper solved the mys- 
tery. 

Chupin was in prison. 

The wretch, after drinking more heav- 
ily than usual one evening, had quarreled 
with his brother, and had killed him by 
a blow upon the head with a piece of 
iron. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


293 


The blood of the betrayed Lacheneur 
was visited upon the heads of his mur- 
derer's children. 

Tried by the Court of Assizes, Chupin 
was condemned to twenty years of hard 
labor, and sent to Brest. 

But this sentence afforded the duchess 
no relief. The culprit had written to 
her from his Paris prison ; he wrote to 
her from Brest. 

But he did not send his letters through 
the post. He confided them to comrades, 
whose terms of imprisonment had ex- 
pired, and who came to the Hotel de 
Sairmeuse demanding an interview with 
the duchess. 

And she received them. They told all 
the miseries th^y had endured ‘‘out 
there;” and usually ended by requesting 
some slight assistance. 

One morning, a man whose desperate 
appearance and manner frightened her, 
brought the duchess this laconic epistle: 

“I am tired of starving here; I wish 
to make my escape. Come to Brest; 
you can visit the prison, and we will 
decide upon some plan. If you refuse 
to do this, I shall apply to the duke, who 
will obtain my pardon in exchange of 
what I will tell him.” 

Madame Blanche was dumb with 
horror. It was impossibe, she thought, 
to sink lower than this. 

“Well!” demanded the man, harshly. 
‘‘What reply shad I make to my com- 
rade?” 

“I will go — tell him that I will go!” 
she said, driven to desperation. 

She made the journey, visited the 
prison, but did not find Chupin. 

The previous week there had been a 
revolt in the prison, the troops had fired 
upon the prisoners, and Chupin had been 
killed instantly. 

Still the duchess dared not rejoice. 

She feared that her tormentor had told 
his wife the secret of his power. 

“I shall soon know,” she thought. 

The widow promptly made her appear- 
ance; but her manner was humble and 
supplicating. 

She had often heard her dear, dead 
husband say that madame was his bene- 
factress, and now she came to beg a littP 
aid to enable her to open a small drinking 
saloon. 

Her son Polyte — ah ! such a good son ! 
just eiguteen years old, and such a help 
to his poor mother — had discovered a 
little house in a good situation for the 
business, and if they only had three or 
four hundred francs 

Madame Blanche gave her five hundred 
francs. 

“Either her humility is a mask,” she 
thought, “or her husband has told her 
nothing.” 

Five days later Polyte Chupin present- 
ed himself. 


They needed three hundred francs 
more before they could commence busi- 
ness, and he came on behalf of his 
mother to » entreat the kind lady to ad- 
vance them. 

Determined to discover exactly where 
she stood, the duchess shortly refused, 
and the young man departed without a 
word. 

Evidently the mother and son were ig- 
norant of the facts. Chupin’s secret had 
died with him. 

This happened early in January. 
Towards the last of February, Aunt 
Medea contracted inflammation of the 
lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she 
attended in an absurd costume, in spite 
of all the attempts which her niece made 
to dissuade her. 

Her passion for dress killed her. Her 
illness lasted only three da)^s ; but her 
sufferings, physical and mental, were 
terrible. 

Constrained by her fear of death to 
examine her own conscience, she saw 
plainly that by profiting by the crime of 
her niece she had been as culpable as if 
she had aided her in committing it. She 
had been very devout in former years, 
and now her superstitious fears were 
re-awakened and intensified. Her faith 
returned accompanied by a cortege of 
terrors. 

“I am lost!” she cried; “I am lost!” 

She tossed to and fro upon her bed ; 
she writhed and shrieked as if she 
already saw hell opening to engulf her. 

She called upon the Holy Virgin and 
upon all the saints to protect her. She 
entreated God to grant her time for 
repentance and for expiation. She 
begged to see a priest, swearing she 
would make a full confession. 

Paler than the dying woman, but im- 
placable, Blanche watched over her, 
aided by that one of her personal attend- 
ants in whom she had most confidence. 

“If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” 
she thought. “I shall be obliged to call 
for assistance, and she will betray me.” 

It did not last long. 

The patient's delirium was succeeded 
by such utter prostration that it seemed 
each moment would be her last. 

But towards midnight she appeared to 
revive a little, and in a voice of intense 
feeling, she said: 

“You have had no pity, Blanche. You 
have deprived me of all hope in the life 
to come. God will punish you. You, 
too, shall die like a dog; alone, without 
a word of Christian counsel or encour- 
agement. I curse you!” 

And she died just as the clock was 
striking two. 

The time when Blanche would have 
given almost anything to know that 
Aunt Medea was beneath the sod, had 
long since passed. 


294 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Now, the death of the poor old woman 
affected her deeply. 

She had lost an Accomplice who had 
often consoled her, and she had gained 
nothing since one of her maids was now 
acquainted with the secret of the crime 
at the Borderie. 

Every one who was intimately ac- 
quainted with the duehesse de Sairmeuse 
noticed her dejection, and was aston- 
ished by it. 

“Is it not strange,” remarked her 
friends, “that the duchess — such a very 
superior woman — should grieve so much 
for that absurd relative of hers.” 

But the dejection of Madame Blanche 
was due in great measure to the sinister 
prophecies of the accomplice to whom 
she had denied the last consolations of 
religion. 

And as her mind reviewed the past she 
shuddered as the peasants at Sairmeuse 
had done, when she thought of the fatal- 
ity which had pursued the shedders of 
innocent blood. 

What misfortune had attended them 
all — from the sons of Chupin. the miser- 
able traitor, up to her father, the Mar- 
quis de Courtornieu whose mind had not 
been illumined by the least gleam of rea- 
son for ten long years before his death. 

•My turn will cornel” she thought. 

The Baron and the Baroness d’Eseor- 
val, and old Corporal Bavois had depart- 
ed this life within a month of each other, 
the previous year, mourned by all. 

So that of all the people of diverse 
condition who had been connected with 
the troubles at Montaignae, Blanche 
knew only four who were still alive. 

Maurice d’Escorval, who had entered 
the magistracy, and was now a judge in 
the tribunal of the Seine ; Abbe Midon 
who h id come to Paris with Maurice, 
and Martial and herself. 

There was another person the bare 
recollection of whom made her tremble, 
and whose name she dared not utter. 

Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne's brother. 

An inward voice, more powerful than 
reason, told her that this implacable en- 
emy was still alive, watching for his 
hour of vengeance. 

More troubled by her presentiments 
now, than she had been by Chupin’ s per- 
secutions in days gone by, Madame de 
Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chefteux 
in order to ascertain, if possible, what 
she had to expect. 

Fouche’s former agent had not wav- 
ered in his devotion to the duchess. Ev- 
ery three months he presented his bill, 
which was paid without discussion ; and 
to ease his conscience, he sent one of his 
men to prowl around Sairmeuse for 
awhile, at least once a year. 

Animated by the hope of a magnifi- 
cent reward, the spy promised his client, 
and — what was more to the purpose — 


promised himself, that he would discover 
this dreaded enemy. 

He started in quest of him c and had 
already begun to collect proofs of Jean's 
existence, when his invest! ations were 
abruptly terminated. 

One morning the body of a man liter- 
ally hacked in pieces was found in an 
old well. It was the body of Chefteux. 

“A fitting close to the career of such a 
wretch,” said the Journal des Debats , in 
noting the event. 

When she read this news, Madame 
Blanche felt as a culprit would feel on 
reading his death-warrant. 

“The end is near,” she murmured. 
“Lacheneur is coming!” 

The duchess was not mistaken. 

Jean had told the truth when he de- 
clared that he was not disposing off his 
sister’s estate for his own benefit. In 
his opinion, Marie-Anne’s fortune must 
be consecrated to one sacred purpose ; he 
would not divert the si ghtest portion of 
it to his individual needs. 

He was absolutely penniless when the 
manager of a traveling theatrical com- 
pany engaged him for a consideration of 
forty-five francs per month. 

From that day he lived the precarious 
life of a strolling player. He was poor- 
ly paid, and often reduced to abject pov- 
erty by lack of engagements, or by the 
impecuniosity of managers. 

His hatred had lost none of its viru- 
lence; but to wreak the desired ven- 
geance upon his enemy, he must have 
time and money at his disposal. 

But how could he accumulate money 
when he was often too poor to appease 
his hunger. 

Still he did not renounce his hopes. 
His was a rancor which was only intensi- 
fied by years. He was biding his time 
while he watched from the depths of his 
misery the brilliant fortunes of the 
house of Sairmeuse. 

He had waited sixteen years, when one 
of his friends procured him an engage- 
ment in Russia. 

The engagement was nothing; but the 
poor comedian was afterwards fortunate 
enough to obtain an interest in a theatri- 
cal enterprise, from which he realized a 
fortune of one hundred thousand francs 
in less than six years. 

“Now.” said he, “I can give up this 
life. I am rich enongh, now, to begin 
the warfare.” 

And six weeks later he arrived in his 
native village. 

Before carrying any of his atrocious 
designs into execution, he went to Sair- 
meuse to visit Marie-Anne’s grave in or- 
der to obtain there an increase of ani- 
mosity, as well as the relentless sang 
froid of a stern avenger of crime. 

That was his only motive in going, 
but, on the very evening of his arrival, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


295 


he learned through a garrulous old peas- 
ant woman that ever since his departure 
— that is to say, for a period of twenty 
years — two parties had been making per- 
sistent inquiries for a child which had 
been placed somewhere in the neighbor- 
hood. 

Jean knew that it was Marie-Anne's 
child they r were seeking. Why they had 
not succeeded in finding it, he knew 
equally well. 

But why were there two persons seek- 
ing the child ? One was Maurice d'Es- 
corval, of course, but who was the 
other? 

Instead of remaining at Sairmeuse a 
week, Jean Lacheneur tarried there a 
month; and by the expiration of that 
month he had traced these inquiries con- 
cerning the child to the agent of Chef- 
teux. Through him, he reached Fouche’s 
former spy; and. finally, succeeded in 
discovering that the search had been in- 
stituted by no less a person than the 
Duchesse de Sairmeuse. 

This discovery bewildered him. IIow 
could Madame Blanche have known that 
Marie-Anne had given birth to a child ; 
and knowing it, what possible interest 
could she have had in finding it? 

These two questions tormented Jean’s 
mind continually ; but he could discover 
no satisfactory answer. 

“Chupin's son could tell me,” perhaps, 
he thought. “I must pretend to be 
reconciled to the sons of the wretch, 
who betrayed my father.” 

But the traitor s children had been 
dead for several years, and after a long 
search, Jean found only the Widow 
Chup : n, and her son, Polyte. 

They were keeping a drinking-saloon 
not far from the Chateau-des-Rentiers ; 
and their establishment, known as the 
Poivriere, bore anything but an enviable 
reputation. 

Lacheneur questioned the widow and 
her son in vain ; they could give him no 
information whatever, on the subject. 
He told them his name, but even this did 
not awaken the slightest recollection in 
their minds. 

Jean was about take his departure 
when Mother Chupin, probably in the 
hope of extracting a few pennies began 
to deplore her present misery, which 
was, she declared, all the harder to bear 
since she had wanted for nothing during 
the life of her poor husband, who had 
always obtained as much money as he 
wanted from a lady of high degree — the 
Duchess de Sairmeuse, in short. 

Lacheneur uttered such a terrible oath 
that the old woman and her son started 
back in affright. 

He saw at once the close connection 
between the rt searches of Madame 
Blanche and her generosity to Chupin. 

“It was she who poisoned Marie- 


Anne,” he said to himself. “It was 
through my sister that she became aware 
of the existence of the child. She loaded 
Chupin with favors because he knew the 
crime she had committed — that crime in 
which his father had been only an accom- 
plice.” 

He remembered Martial’s oath at the 
bed.dde of the murdered girl, and his 
heart overflowed with savage exultation. 
He saw his two enemies, the last of the 
Sairmeuse and the last of the Courtornieu 
take in their own hands his work of 
vengeance. 

But this was mere conjecture ; he de- 
sired to be assured of the correctness of 
his suppositions. 

He drew from his pocket a handful of 
gold, and, throwing it upon the table, he 
said : 

“I am very rich; if you will obey me 
and keep my secret, your fortune is 
made.” 

A shrill cry of delight from mother 
and son outweighed an}' protestations of 
obedience. 

The Widow Chupin knew how to write, 
and Lacheneur dictated this letter : 

“Madame la Duchesse— I shall ex- 
pect you at my establishment to-morrow 
between twelve and four o'clock. It is 
on business connected with the Borderie. 
If at five o’clock I have not seen you, I 
shall carry to the post a letter for the 
duke.” 

“And if she comes what am I to say to 
her?” asked the astonished widow. 

“Nothing; you will merely ask her for 
money.” 

“If she comes, it is as I have guessed,” 
he reflected. 

She came. 

Hidden in the loft of the Poivriere , 
Jean, through an opening in the floor, 
saw the duchess give a bank-note to 
Mother Chupin. 

“Now, she is in my power !” he thought 
exultantly. “Through what sloughs of 
degradation will I drag her before I de- 
liver her up to her husband’s vengeance !” 


CHAPTER XCVTI. 

A few lines of the article consecrated 
to Martial de Sairmeuse in the “General 
Biography of the Men of the Century.” 
give the history of his life after his 
marriage. 

“Martial de Sairmeuse,” it says, there, 
“brought to the service of his party a 
brilliant intellect and admirable endow- 
ments. Called to the front at the moment 
when political strife was raging with the 
utmost violence, he had courage to as- 
sume the sole responsibility of the most 
extreme measures. 


206 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


“Compelled by almost universal oppro- 
brium to retire from office, he left behind 
him animosities which will be extin- 
guished only with life.” 

But what this article does not state is 
this : if Martial was wrong — and that 
depends entirely upon the point of view 
from which his conduct is regarded — he 
was doubly wrong, since he was not 
possessed of those ardent convictions 
verging upon fanaticism which make 
men fools, heroes and martyrs. 

He was not even ambitious. 

Those associated with him, witnessing 
his passionate struggle and his unceas- 
ing activity, thought him actuated by an 
insatiable thirst for power. 

He cared little or nothing for it. He 
considered its burdens heavy; its com- 
pensations small. His pride was too lof- 
ty to feel any satisfaction in the applause 
that delights the vain, and flattery dis- 
gusted him. Often, in his princely 
drawing-rooms, during some brilliant 
fete, his acquaintances noticed a shade of 
gloom steal over h.s features, and seeing 
him thus thoughtful and preoccupied, 
they respectfully refrained from disturb- 
ing him. 

“His mind is occupied with momentous 
questions,” they thought. “Who can 
tell what important decisions may result 
from this reverie.” 

They were mistaken. 

At the veiy moment when his brilliant 
success made his rivals pale with envy — 
when it would seem that he had nothing 
left to wish for in this world, Martial was 
saying to himself : 

“What an empty life ! What weariness 
and vexation of spirit! To live for 
others — what a mockery !” 

He looked at his wife, radiant in her 
beauty, worshiped like a queen, and he 
sighed. 

He thought of her who was dead— 
Marie-Anne — the only woman whom he 
had ever loved. 

She was never absent from his mind. 
After all these j'ears he saw her yet, 
cold, rigid, lifeless, in that luxurious 
room at the Borderie; and time, far from 
effacing the image of the fair girl who 
had won his youthful heart, made it still 
more radiant and endowed his lost idol 
with almost superhuman grace of person 
and of character. 

If fate had but given him Marie-Anne 
for his wife! He said this to himself 
again and again, picturing the exquisite 
happiness which a life with her would 
have afforded h m. 

They would have remained at Sair- 
meuse. They would have had lovely 
children playing around them ! He 
would not be condemned to this continual 
warfare— to this hollow, unsatisfying, 
restless life. 

The truly happy are not those who 


parade their satisfaction and good for- 
tune before the'' eyes of the multitu le. 
The truly happy hide themselves from 
the curious gaze, and they are right; 
happiness is almost a crime. 

So thought Martial ; and he, the great 
statesman, often said to himself, in a sort 
of rage : 

“To love, and to be loved — that is every 
thing! All else is vanity.” 

He had really tried to love his wife ; 
he had done his best to rekindle the ad- 
miration with which she had inspired 
him at their first meeting. He had not 
succeeded. 

Between them there seemed to be a 
wall of ice which nothing could melt, 
and which was constantly increasing in 
height and thickness. 

“Why is it?” he wondered, again and 
again. ’ “It is incomprehensible. There 
are days when I could swear that she 
loved me. Her character, formerly so 
irritable, is entirely changed; she is gen- 
tleness itself. 

But he could not conquer his aversion ; 
it was stronger than his own will. 

These unavailing regrets, and the dis- 
appointments and sorrow that preyed 
upon him, undoubtedly aggravated the 
bitterness and severity of Martial’s 
policy. 

But he, at least, knew how to fall 
nobly. 

He passed, without even a change of 
countenance, from almost omnipotence 
to a position so compromising that his 
very life was endangered. 

On seeing his ante-chambers, former- 
ly thronged with flatterers and office- 
seekers, empty and deserted, he laughed, 
and his laugh was unaffected. 

“The ship is sinking,” said he; “the 
rats have deserted it;” 

He did not even pale when the noisy 
crowd came to hoot and curse and hurl 
stones at his windows ; and when Otto, 
his faithful valet de ehambre. entreated 
him to assume a disguise and make his 
escape through the gardens, he responded : 

“By no means! I am simply odious; 

I do not wish to become ridiculous !” 

They could not even dissuade him from 
going to a window and looking down 
upon the rabble in the street below. 

A singular idea had just occurred to 
him. 

“If Jean Lacheneur is still alive,” he 
thought, “how much he would enjoj r this ! 
And if he is alive, he is undoubtedly there 
in the foremost rank, urging on the 
crowd.” 

And he wished to see. 

But Jean Lacheneur was in Russia at 
that epoch. The excitement subsided; 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse was not seriously 
threatened. Still Martial realized that 
it would be better for him to go away 


297 


MONSIEUR 

for awhile, and allow people to forget 
him. 

He did not ask the ducliess to accom- 
pany him. 

“The fault has been mine entirely,” he 
said to her, “and to make you suffer for 
it by condemning you to exile would be 
unjust. Remain here; I think it will be 
much better for you to remain here.” 

She did not offer to go with him. It 
would have been a pleasure to her, but 
she dared not leave Paris. She knew 
that she must remain in order to insure 
the silence of her persecutors. Both 
times she had left Paris before, all came 
near being discovered, and yet she had 
Aunt Medea, then, to take her place. 

, Martial went away, accompanied only 
by his devoted servant, Otto. In intelli- 
gence, this man was decidedly superior 
to his position ; he possessed an indepen- 
dent fortune, and he had a hundred rea- 
sons — one, by the way was a very pretty 
one — for desiring to remain in Paris; but 
his master was in trouble, and he did not 
hesitate. 

For four years the Duke de Sairmeuse 
wandered over Europe, ever accompan- 
ied by his ennui and his dejection, and 
chafing beneath the burden of a life no 
longer animated by interest or sustained 
by hope. 

He remained awhile in London, then 
he went to Vienna, afterwards to Ven- 
ice. One day he was seized by an irresis- 
tible desire to see Paris again, and he 
returned. 

It was not a very prudent step, per- 
haps. His bitterest enemies — personal 
enemies, whom he had mortally offended 
and persecuted — were in power ; but he 
did not hesitate. Besides, how could 
they injure him, since he had no favors 
to ask, no cravings of ambition to sat- 
isfy? 

The exile which had weighed so heav- 
ily upon him, the sorrow, the disappoint- 
ments and loneliness he had endured had 
softened his nature and inclined his 
heart to tenderness: and he returned 
firmly resolved to overcome his aversion 
to his wife, and seek a reconciliation. 

“Old age is approaching.” he thought. 
“If I have not a beloved wife at my fire- 
side. I may at least have a frien 1.” 

His manner towards her, on his return, 
astonished Madame Blanche. She almost 
believed she saw again the Martial of the 
little blue salon at Courtornieu; but the 
realization of her cherished dream was 
now only another torture added to all 
the others. 

Martial was striving to carry his plan 
into execution, when the* following lacon- 
ic epistle came to him one day through 
the post : 

“Monsieur le Due— I, if I were in 
your place, would watch my wife.” 


LEC % OQ. 

It was only an anonymous letter, but 
Martial's blood mounted to his forehead. 

“Can it be that she has a lover V” he 
thought. 

Then reflecting on his own conduct 
towards his wife since their marriage, he 
said to himself : 

“And if she has, have I any right to 
complain? Did I not tacitly give her 
back her liberty?” 

He was greatly troubled, and yet he 
would not have degraded himself so 
much as to play the spy, had it not been 
for one of those trifling circumstances 
which so often decide a man’s destiny. 

He was returning from a ride on horse- 
back one morning about eleven o'clock, 
and he was not thirty paces from the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse when he saw a* lady 
hurriedly emerge from the house. She 
was very plainly dressed — entirely in 
black — but her whole appearance was 
strikingly that of the duchess. 

“It is certainly my w.fe : but why is 
she dressed in such a fashion?” he 
t lought. 

Ha l he been on foot he would cer- 
tainly have entered the house ; as it was, 
he slowly followed Madame Blanche 
who was going up the Rue Grenelle. 
She walked very quickly, and without 
turning her head, and kept her face per- 
sistently shrouded in a very thick ve 1. 

When she reached the Rue Taranne, 
she threw herself into one of the fiacres 
at the carriage-stand. 

The coachman came to the door to 
speak to her; then nimbly sprang upon 
the box, and gave his bony horses one of 
those cuts of the whip that announce a 
princely pour-boire. 

The carriage had already turned the 
corner of the Rue du Dragon, and Mar- 
tial, ashamed and irresolute, had not 
moved from the place where he had 
stopped his horse, just around the corner 
of the Rue Saint Pares. 

Not daring to admit his suspicions, he 
tried to deceive himself. 

“Nonsense!” he thought, giving the 
reins to his horse, “what do I risk in ad- 
vancing? The carriage is a long ways off 
by this time, and I shall not overtake it.” 

He did overtake it, however, on reach- 
ing the intersection of the Crofx-Rouge. 
where there was, as usual, a crowd of 
vehicles. 

It w r as the same fiacre ; Martial recog- 
nized it by its green body, and its wheels 
striped with white. 

Emerging from the crowxi of carriages, 
the driver whipped up his horses, and it 
w^as at a gallop that they flew up the 
Rue du Vieux Columbier— the narrowest 
street that borders the Place Saint Sulpice 
— and gained the outer boulevards. 

Martial's thoughts were busy as he 
trotted along about a hundred yards be- 
Ihind the vehicle. 


293 


# 

‘‘She is in a terrible hurry,” he said to 
himself. ‘‘This, however, is scarcely the 
quarter for a lover's rendezvous.” 

The carriage had passed the Place 
dTtalie. It entered the Hue du Chateau- 
des-Rentiers and soon paused before a 
tract of unoccupied ground. 

Th“ d jor was at once opened, and the 
Duchesse de Sairmeuse hastily alighted. 

Without stopping to look to the right 
or to the left, she hurried across the open 
space. 

A man, by no means prepossessing in 
appearance, with a long beard, and wi h 
a pipe in his mouth, and clad in a work- 
man's blouse, was seated upon a large 
block of stone not far off. 

“Will you hold my horse a moment?” 
inquired Martial. 

“Certainly,” answered the man. 

Had Martial been less preoccupied, his 
suspicions might have been aroused by 
the malicious smile that curved the man’s 
lips : and had he examined his features 
closely, he would perhaps have recog- 
nized him. 

For it was Jean Lacheneur. 

Since addressing that anonymous letter 
to the Duke de Sairmeuse, he had made 
the duchess multiply her visits to the 
Widow Chupin ; and each time he had 
watched for her coming. 

“So, if her husband decides to follow 
her I shall know it,” he thought. 

It was indispensable for the success of 
his plans that Madame Blanche should be 
watched by her husband. 

For Jean Lacheneur had decided upon 
his course. From a thousand schemes 
for revenge he had chosen the most 
frightful and ignoble that a brain mad- 
dened and enfevered by hatred could 
possibly conceive. 

He longed to see the haughty Duchesse 
de Sairmeuse subjected to the vilest ig- 
nominy, Martial in the hands of the 
lowest of the low. He pictured a bloody 
struggle in this miserable den ; the sud- 
den arrival of the police, summoned by 
himself, who would arrest all the parties 
indiscriminately. He gloated over the 
thought of a trial in which the crime 
committed at the Borderie would be 
brought to light ; he saw the duke and 
the duchess in prison, and the great 
names of Sairmeuse and of Courtornieu 
shrouded in eternal disgrace. 

And he believed that nothing was want- 
ing to insure the success of his plans. 
He had at his disposal two miserable 
wretches who were capable of any 
crime ; and an unfortunate youth named 
Gustave, made his willing slave by pov- 
erty and cowardice, was intended to play 
the part of Marie-Anne’s son. 

These three accomplices had no suspi- 
cion of his real intentions. As for the 
Widow Chupin and her son, if they sus- 
pected some infamous plot, the name of 


: LECOQ. 

the duchess was all they really knew in 
regard to it. Moreover, Jean held Polyte 
and his mother completely under his 
control by the wealth which he had 
promised them if they served him do- 
cilely. 

And if Martial followed his wife in‘ o 
the Poivriere, Jean had so arranged mat- 
ters that the duke would at first suppose 
that she had been led there by charity. 

“But he will not go in,” thought 
Lacheneur, whose heart throbbed wildly 
with sinister joy as he held Martial's 
horse. “Monsieur le Due is too line for 
that.” 

And Martial did not go in. Though he 
was horrified when he saw his wife enter 
that vile den, as if she were at home 
there, he said to himself that he should 
learn nothing by following her. 

He, therefore, contented himself by 
making a thorough examination of the 
outside of the house; then, remounting 
his horse, he departed on a gallop. He 
was completely mystified; he did not 
know what to think, w r hat to imagine, 
what to believe. 

But he was fully resolved to fathom 
this mystery ; and as soon as he returned 
home he sent Otto out in search of infor- 
mation. He could conli le everything to 
this devoted servant ; he had no secrets 
from him. 

About four o'clock his faithful valet 
de chambre returned, an expression of 
profound consternation visible upon his 
countenance. 

“What is it?” asked Martial, divining 
some great misfortune. 

“Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched 
den is the widow of Chupin's son ” 

Martial's face became as white as his 
linen. 

He knew life too well not to understand 
that since the duchess had been com- 
pelled to submit to the power of these 
people, they must be masters of some 
secret which she was willing to make 
any sacrifice to preserve. But what 
secret? 

The years which had silvered Martial’s 
hair, had not cooled the ardor of his 
blood. He was, as he had always been, 
a man of impulses. 

He rushed to his wife’s apartments. 

“Madame has just gone down to re- 
ceive the Countess de Mussidan and the 
Marquise d’Arlange,” said the maid. 

“Very well; I will Wait for her here. 
Retire.” 

And Martial entered the chamber of 
Madame Blanche. 

The room was in disorder, for the 
duchess, after returning from the Poiv- 
riere, was still engaged in her toilette 
when the visitors were announced. 

The wardrobe-doors were open, the 
chairs were encumbered with wearing 
apparel, the articles which Madame 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


299 


Blanche used daily — her watch, her! Widow Chupin ; and he ordered Otto to 
purse, and several bunches of keys — were procure a costume for him such as was 
lying upon the dressing-table and mantel, generally worn by the habitues of the 
‘Moj’tiai rhr i oU TT — He did not know how soon he 


Ilis self- 


Poivriere. 
might have use for it. 

This happened early in February, and 
from that moment Madame Blanche did 
not take a single step without 


being 


Martial did not sit down, 
possession was returning. 

“No folly,” he thought, “if I question 
her, I shall learn nothing. I must be 
silent and watchful.” 

He was about to retire, when, on watched. Not a letter reached her that 
glancing about the room, his eyes fell her husband had not previously read, 
upon a large casket, inla'd with silver, | And she had not the slightest suspi- 
which had belonged to his wife ever since cion of the constant espionage to which 
she was a young girl, and which accom- she was subjected. 

panted her everywhere. Martial did not leave his room ; he p - e- 


tended to be ill. To meet his wife and 
be silent, was beyond his powers. He 
remembered the oath of vengeance which 

Marie- Anne’s 


“That, doubtless, holds the solution of 
the mystery,” he said to himself. 

It was one of those moments when a 
man obeys the dictates bf passion without he had pronounced over 
pausing to reflect. He saw the keys upon lifeless form too well, 
the mantel : he seized them, and endeav- 
ored to find one that would fit the lock 
of the casket. The fourth key opened it. 

It was full of papers. 

With feverish haste, Martial examined 


But there were no new revelations, and 
for this reason : Polyte Chupin had been 
arrested under charge of theft, and this 
accident caused a delay in the < xecution 
of Lacheneur’s plans. * But, at last, he 


the contents. He had thrown aside sev- judged that all would be in readiness 


eral unimportant letters, when he came 
to a bill that read as fo lows : 

“Search for the child of Madame de 
Sairmeuse. Expenses for the third quar- 
ter of the year 18 — .” 

Martial’s brain reeled. 

A child ! His wife had a child ! 

He read on : “For services of two 


agents at Sairmeuse, 


attending my own journey, 

gratuities, . Etc., etc.” The 

amounted to six ihousand francs. 

Chefteux.” 


on the 20th of February, Shrove Sunday. 

The evening before the Widow Chupin, 
in conformance with his instructions, 
wrote to the duchess that she must come 
to the Poivriere Sunday evening at eleven 
o’clock. 

On that same evening Jean was to meet 
his accomplices at a ball at the Rainbow 
For expenses | — a public house bearing a very unenvia- 


Divers ble reputation — and give them their last 


total instructions. 


The 


bill was signed 


With a sort of cold rage. Martial con- 
tinued his examination of the contents of 


These accomplices were to open the 
scene; he was to appear only in the 

clenoui merit. 

“All is well arranged; the mechanism 


the casket, and found a note written in a will work of its own accord,” he said to 


himself. 

But the “mechanism” as he styled it, 
failed to work. 

Madame Blanche, on receiving the 
Widow Chupin’s summons, revolted for 
a moment. The lateness of the hour, the 
the spot designated, fright- 


miserable hand, that said : “Two thous 
and francs this evening, or I will tell 
the duke the history uf the affair at the 
Borderie.” Then several more bills from 
Chefteux ; then a le.ter from Aunt Medea 
in which she spoke of prison and of re- 
morse. And finally, at the bottom of the isolation of 
casket, he found the marriage certificate jened her. 

of Marie- Anne Lacheneur and Maurice | But she was obliged to submit, and on 
d’Escorval. drawn up by the cure of , the appointed evening she furtively left 
Vigano and signed by the old physician the house, accompanied by Camille, the 

same servant who had witnessed Aunt 
Medea's last agony. 

The duchess and her maid were attired 
like women of the very lowest order, 
and felt no fear of being seen or recog- 


and Corporal Bavois. 

The truth was as clear as daylight. 
Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial 
scarcely had strength to return the letters 
to the casket and restore it to its pla< e. 


Then he tottered back to his own room, nized. 


clinging to the walls for support. 

“it was she who murdered Marie- 
Anne,” he murmured. 

He was confounded, terror-stricken by 
the peifidy and baseness of this woman 
who was "his wife — by her criminal au- 
dacity, by her cool calculation and as- 
surance, by her marvelous powers of dis- 
simulation. 

He swore he wou’d discover all, either 
the duchess or through the 


through 


And yet a man was watching them, 
and he quickly followed them. It was 
Martial. 

Knowing of this rendezvous even be- 
fore his wife, he had disguised himself 
in the costume Otto had procured for him, 
which was that of a laborer about the 
quays ; and, as he was a man who did 
perfectly whatever he attempted to do, 
he had succeeded in rendering himself 
unrecognizable. His hair and beard were 


300 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


rough and matted ; his hands were soiled 
and grimed with dirt ; he was really the 
abject wretch whose rags he wore. 

Otto had begged to be allowed to ac- 
company him ; but the duke refused, say- 
ing that the revolver which he would 
take with him would be sufficient pro- 
tection. He knew Otto well enough, 
however, to be certain he would disobey 
him. 

Ten o’clock was sounding when Ma- 
dame Blanche and Camille left the house, 
and it did not take them five minutes to 
reach the Rue Taranne. 

There was one fiacre on the stand — one 
only. 

They entered it and it drove away. 

This circumstance drew from Martial 
an oath worthy of his costume. Then 
he reflected that, since he knew where to 
find his w fe, a slight delay in finding a 
carriage did not matter. 

He soon obtained one; and the coach- 
man, thanks to a pour-boire of ten francs, 
drove to the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers 
as fast as his horses could go. 

But the duke had scarcely set foot on 
the ground before he heard the rumbling 
of another carriage whLh stopped abrupt- 
ly at a little distance. 

“Otto is evidently following me,” he 
thought. 

And he started across the open space 
in the direction of the P. ivriere. 

Gloom and silence prevailed on every 
side, and were made still more oppressive 
by a chill fog that heralded an approach- 
ing thaw. Martial stumbled and slipped 
at almost every step upon the rough, 
snow-covered ground. 

It was not long before he could distin- 
guish a dark mass in the midst of the 
fog. It was the Po ivriere. The light 
within filtered through the heart-shaped 
openings in the blinds, looking at a dis- 
tance like lurid eyes gleaming in the 
darkness. 

Could it really be possible that the 
Duchesse de Sairmeuse was there! 

Martial cautiously approached the 
window, and clinging to the hinges of 
one of the shutters, he lifted himself up 
so he could peer through the opening. 

Yes. his wife was indeed there in that 
vile den. 

She and Camille were seated at a table 
before a large punch-bowl, and in com- 
pany with two ragged, leering scoundrels, 
and a soldier, quite youthful in appear- 
ance. 

In the centre of the room stood the 
Widow Cliupin, with a small glass in her 
hand, talking volubly and punctuating 
her sentences by copious draughts of 
brandy. 

The impression produced upon Martial 
was so terrible that his hold relaxed and 
he dropped to the ground. 

A ray of pity penetrated his soul, for 


he vaguely realized the frightful suffer- 
ing which had been the chastisement of 
the murderess. 

But he desired another glance at the 
interior of the hovel, and he again lifted 
himself up to the opening and looked 
in. 

The old woman had disappeared; the 
young soldier had risen from the table 
and was talking and gesticulating earnest- 
ly. Madame Blanche and Camille were 
listening to him with the closest atten- 
tion. 

The two men who were sitting face to 
face, with th ir elbows upon the table, 
were looking at each other ; and Martial 
saw them exchange a significant glance. 

He was not wVong. The scoundrels 
were plotting “a rich haul.” 

Madame Blanche, who had dressed 
herself with such care, that to render her 
disguise perfect she had encased her feet 
in large, coarse shoes, that were almost 
killing her — Madame Blanche had for- 
gotten to remove her superb diamond 
ear-rings. 

She had forgotten them, but Lache- 
neur's accomplices had noticed them, 
and were now regarding them with eyes 
that glittered more brilliantly than the 
diamonds themselves. 

While awai.ing Lacheneur's coming, 
these wretches, as had been agreed upon, 
were playing the part which he had 
imposed upon them. For this, and their 
assistance afterwards, they were to 
receive a certain sum of money. 

But they were thinking that this sum 
was not, perhaps, a quarter part of the 
value of these jewels, and they exchanged 
glances that said : 

“Ah! if we could only get them and 
make our escape before Lacheneur 
comes !” 

The temptation was too strong to be 
resisted. 

One of them rose suddenly, and, seiz- 
ing the duchess by the back of the neck, 
he forced her head down upon the table. 

The diamonds would have been torn 
from the ears of Madame Blanche had it 
not been for Camille, who bravely came 
to the aid of her mistress. 

Marti d could endure no more. He 
sprang to the door of the hovel, opened 
it, and entered, bolting it behind him. 

“Martial !” 

“Monsieur le Due!” 

These cries escaping the lips of Ma- 
dame Blanche and Camille in the same 
breath, changed the momentary stupor 
of their assailants into fury; and they 
both precipitated themselves upon Mar- 
tial, determined to kill him. 

With a spring to one side, Martial 
avoided them. He had his revolver in 
his hand ; he fired twice and the wretch- 
es fell. 

But he was not yet safe, for the young 


MONSIEUR LECOQ, 


301 


soldier threw himself upon him, and 
attempted to disarm him. 

Through all the furious struggle. Mar- 
tial did not cease crying in a panting 
voice ; 

“Fly! Blanche, fly! Otto is not far 
off*. The name — save the honor of the 
name !” 

The two women obeyed, making their 
escape through the back door, which 
opened upon the garden ; and they had 
scarcely done so, before a violent knock- 
ing was heard at the front door. 

The police were coming ! This in- 
creased Martial’s frenzy : and with one 
supreme effort to free himself from his 
assailant, he gave him such a violent 
push that his adversary fell, striking his 
head against the corner of the table, 
after which he lay like one dead. 

But the widow Chupin, who had come 
down-stairs on hearing the uproar, was 
shrieking upon the stairs. At the door 
some one was crying: “Open in the 
name of the law !” 

Martial might have fled ; but if he fled, 
the duchess might be captured, for he 
would certainly be pursued. He saw 
the peril at a glance, and liis decision 
was made. 

He shook the Widow Chupin violently 
by the arm, and said, in an imperious 
voice : 

“If you know how to hold your tongue 
you shall have one hundred thousand 
francs.” 

Then, drawing a table before the door 
opening into the ajoining room, he in- 
trenched himself behind it as behind a 
rampart, and awaited the approach of 
the enemy. 

The next moment the door was forced 
open, and a squad of police, under the 
command of Inspector Gevrol, entered 
the room. 

“Surrender!” cried the inspector. 

Martial did not move; his pistol was 
turned upon the intruder. 

“If I can parley with them, and hold 
them in check only two minutes, all may 
yet be saved.” he thought. 

He obtained the wished-for delay ; then 
he threw his weapon to the ground, and 
was about to bound though the back-door, 
when a policeman, who had gone round 
to the rear of the house, seized him about 
the body, and threw him to the floor. 

From this side he expected only assist- 
ance, so he cried : 

“Lost! It is the Prussians who are 
coming !” 

In the twinkling of an eye. he was 
bound ; and two hours later he was an 
inmate of the station-house at the Place 
d’ltalie. 

He had played his part so perfectly, 
that he had deceived even Gevrol. The 
other participants in the broil were dead, 
and he could rely upon the Widow Chu- 


pin. But he knew that the trap had been 
set for him by Jean Lacheneur ; and he 
read a whole volume of suspicion in the 
eyes of the young officer who had cut off 
his retreat, and who was called Lecoq by 
his companions. 


CHAPTER XCVIII. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was one of 
those men who remain superior to all 
fortutious circumstances, good or bad. 
He was a man of vast experience, and 
great natural shrewdness. Iiis mind was 
quick to act. and fertile in resources. 
But when he found himself immured in 
the damp and loathsome station-house, 
after the terrible scenes at the Poivriere, 
he relinquished all hope. 

Martial knew that Justice does not trust 
to appearances, and that when she finds 
herself confronted by a mystery, she does 
not rest until she has fathomed it. 

Martial knew, only too well, that if his 
identity was established, the authorities 
would endeavour to discover the reason of 
his presence at the Poivriere. That this 
reason would soon be discovered, he could 
not doubt, and, in that case, the crime at 
the Borderie, and the guilt of the duchess, 
would undoubtedly be made public. 

This meant the Court of Assizes, prison, 
a frightful scandal, dishonor, eternal dis- 
grace ! 

And the power he had wielded in former 
days was a positive disadvantage to him 
now. His place was now filled by his 
political adversaries. Among them were 
two personal enemies upon whom he had 
inflicted those terrible wounds of vanity 
which are never healed. What an oppor- 
tunity for revenge this would afford 
them ! 

At the thought of this ineffaceable stain 
upon the great name of Sairmeuse, which 
was his pride and his glory, reason almost 
forsook him. 

“My God, inspire me,” he murmured. 
“How shall I save the honor of the 
name?” 

He saw but one chance of salvation — 
death. They now believed him one of the 
miserable wretches that haunt the sub- 
urbs of Paris ; if he were . dead they 
would not trouble themselves about his 
identity. 

“It is the only way!” he thought. 

He was endeavoring to find some 
means of accomplishing his plan of self- 
destruction, when he heard a bustle and 
confusion outside. In a few moments the 
door was opened and a man was thrust 
into the same cell — a man who staggered 
a few steps, fell heavily to the floor, and 
began to snore loudly. It was only a 
drunken man. 

But a gleam of hope illumined Martial's 
heart, for in the drunken man he recog- 


302 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


nized Otto — disguised, almost unrecog- 
nizable. 

It was a bold ruse and no time must 
be lost in profiting by it. Martial 
stretched himself upon a bench, as if to 
sleep, in such a way that his head was 
scarcely a yard from that of Otto. 

“The duchess is out of danger,” mur- 
mured the faithful servant. 

“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, 
through me, all will be known.” 

“Have you told them who you are?” 

“No; all the policemen but one took 
me for a vagabond.” 

“You must continue to personate this 
character.” 

“What good will it do? Lacheneur 
will betray me.” 

But Martial, though he little knew it, 
had no need to fear La- heneur for the 
present, at least. A few hours before, 
on his way from the Rainbow to the 
Poivriere, Jean had been precipitated to 
the bottom of a stone quarry, and had 
fractured his skull. The laborers, on 
returning to their work early in the 
morning, found him lying there sense- 
less ; and at that very moment they w r ere 
carrying him to the hospital. 

Although Otto was ignorant of this 
circumstance, he did not seem discour- 
aged. 

••There will be some way of getting 
rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will 
only sustain your present character. An 
escape is an easy matter when a man has 
millions at his command.” 

“They will ask me who I am, whence 
I came, how I have lived.” 

“You speak English and German; tr-ll 
them that you have just returned from 
foreign lands; that you were a foundling 
and that you have always lived a roving 
life.” 

“How can I prove this?” 

Otto drew a little nearer his master, 
and said, impressively : 

“We must agree upon our plans, for 
our success depends upon a perfect un- 
derstanding between us. I have a sweet- 
heart in Paris— and no one knows our re- 
lations. She is as sharp as steel. Her 
name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel 
de Mariembourg, on th * Saint-Quentin. 
You can say that you arrived here from 
Leips.c on Sunday; that you went to this 
hotel ; that you left your trunk there, 
and that this trunk is marked with the 
name of May, foreign artist.” 

“Capital !” said Martial, approvingly. 

And then, with extraordinary quick- 
ness and precision, they agreed, point by 
point, upon their plan of defence. 

When all had been arranged, Otto per- 
tended to awake from the heavy sleep of 
intoxication ; he clamored to be released, 
and the keeper finally opened the door 
and set him at liberty. 

Before leaving the station-house, how- 


ever. he succeeded in throwing a note to 
the Widow Chupin, who was imprisoned 
in the other compartment. 

So, when Lecoq, after his skillful in- 
vestigations at the Poivriere, rushed to 
the Place dTtalie, panting with hope and 
ambition, he found himself outwitted by 
these men, who were inferior to him in 
penetration, but whose finesse was supe- 
rior to his own. 

Martial's plans being fully formed, he 
intended to carry them out with absolute 
perfection of detail, and, after his remov- 
al to prison, the Duke de Sairmeuse was 
preparing himself for the visit of the 
judge of "instruction, -when Maurice d'Es- 
corval entered. 

They recognized each other. They 
were both terribly agitated, and the ex- 
amination was an examination only in 
name. After the departure of Maurice, 
Martial attempted to destroy himself. 
He had no faith in the generosity of his 
former enemy. 

But when he found M. Segmuller occu- 
pying Maurice’s place the next morning, 
Martial believed that he w r as saved. 

Then began that struggle between the 
judge and Lecoq on one side, and the 
accused on the other — a struggle from 
which neither party came out conqueror. 

Martial knew that Lecoq w r as the only 
person he had to fear, still he bore him 
no ill-wi 1. Faithful to his nature, which 
compelled him to be just even to his ene- 
mies, he could not help admiring the 
astonishing penetration and perseverance 
of this young policeman who, undismayed 
by the obstacles and discouragements 
that surrounded him, struggled on, unas- 
sisted, to reach the truth. 

But Lecoq was always outwfitted by 
Otto, the mysterious accomplice, who 
seemed to know his every movement in 
advance. 

At the Morgue, at the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte 
Chupin, as well as with Polyte Chupin 
himself, Lecoq was just a little too late. 

Lecoq detected the secret correspon- 
dence between the prisoner and his 
accomplice. He w r as. even ingenious 
enough to discover the key to it, but 
this served no purpose. A man, who 
had seen a rival, or rather, a future mas- 
ter, in Lecoq had betrayed him. 

If his efforts to arrive at the truth through 
the jeweler and the Marquis d’Arlange had 
failed, it was only because Madame 
Blanche had not purchased the diamond 
ear-rings she wore at the Poivriere at any 
shop, but from one of her friends, the 
Baroness de Watchau. 

And lastly, if no one at Paris had missed 
the Duke de Sairmeuse, it w r as because — 
thanks to an understanding between the 
duchess, Otto, and Camille— no other in- 
mate of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected 
his absence. All the servants supposed 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


303 


their master confined to his room by 
illness. They prepared all sorts of 
grue s and broths for him, and his break- 
fast and dinner were taken to his apart- 
ments every day. 

So the weeks went by, and Martial was 
expecting to be summoned before the 
Court of Assizes and condemned under 
the name of May, when he was afforded 
an opportunity to esocoe. 

Too shrewd not t dscern the trap 
that had been set fbv. n, he endured 
some moments of horribv^ esitation in 
the prison-van. v 

He decided to accept the risk, how- 
ever, commending himself to his lucky 
star. 

And he decided wisely, for that same 
night he leaped his own garden wal , 
leaving, as a hostage, in the hands of 
Lecoq, an escaped convict, Joseph Con- 
turier by name, whom he had picked up 
in a low drinking saloon. 

Warned by Madame Milner, thanks to 
a blunder on the part of Lecoq, Otto 
was awaiting his master. 

In the twinkling of an eye Martial's 
beard fell under the razor; he plunged 
into the bath th;\t was awaiting him, and 
his clothing was burned. 

And it was he who, during the search 
a few minutes later, had the hardihood 
to call out : 

‘‘Otto, by all means allow these men 
to do their duty.” 

But he did not breathe freely until the 
agents of police had departed. 

“At last,” he exclaimed, ‘‘honor is 
saved ! We have outwitted Lecoq !” 

He had just left the bath, and envel- 
oped himself in a robe de chambre , when 
Otto handed him a letter from the duch- 
ess. 

He hastily broke the seal and read : 

“You are* safe. You know all. I am 
dying. Farewell. I loved you.” 

With two bounds he reached his wife's 
apartments. The door was locked : he 
burst it open. Too late ! 

Madame Blanche was dead — poisoned, 
like Marie-Anne ; but she had procured a 
drug whose effect was instantaneous; 
and extended upon her couch, clad in her 
wonted apparel, her hands folded upon 
her breast, she seemed only asleep. 

A tear glittered in Martial’s eye. 

“Poor, unhappy woman!” he mur- 
mured; “may God forgive you as I for- 
give you — vou whose crime has been so 
frightfully" expiated here below!” 

END OF PART SECOND. 


EPILOGUE. 

THE FIRST SUCCESS. 

Safe, in his own princely mansion, and 
surrounded by an army of retainers, the 
Duke de Sairmeuse triumphantly ex- 
claimed : 

“We have outwitted Lecoq!” 

In this he was right. 

But he thought himself forever be- 
yond the reach of the wily, keen-witted 
detective ; and in this he was wrong. 

Lecoq was not the man to sit down 
with folded hands and brood over the 
humiliation of his defeat. 

Before he went to Father Tabaret, he 
was beginning to recover from his stupor 
and despondency ; and when he left that 
experienced detective's presence, he had 
regained his courage, his command over 
his faculties, and sufficient energy to 
move the world, if necessary. 

“Well, my good man,” he remarked to 
Father Absinthe, who was trotting along 
by his side, “you have heard what the 
great Monsieur Tabaret said, did you 
not? So you see I was right.” 

But his companion evinced no enthu- 
siasm. 

“Yes, you were right,” he responded, 
in woe-begone tones. 

“Do you think we are ruined by two 
or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will 
soon turn our defeat of to-day into a 
glorious victory.” 

“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if — 
they do not dismiss us from the force.” 

This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to 
a realizing sense of the present situation.” 

They had allowed a prisoner to slip 
through their fingers. That w r as vexa- 
tious, it is true ; but they had captured 
one of the most notorious of criminals 
— Joseph Conturier. Surely there was 
some comfort in that. 

But while Lecoq could have borne dis- 
missal ; he could not endure the thought 
that he would not be allowed to follow 
up this affair of the Poivriere. 

What would his superior officers say 
when he told them that May and the 
Duke de Sairmeuse w T ere one and the 
same person. 

They would, undoubtedly, shrug their 
shoulders and turn up their noses. 

“Still. M. Segmuller will believe me,” 
he thought. “But will he dare to take 
any action in the matter without incon- 
trovertible evidence?” 

This w T as very unlikely. Lecoq real- 
ized it all too well. 

“Could w r e not make a descent upon 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some 
pretext or other, compel the duke to 
show himself, and identify him as the 
prisoner, May? % 


304 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He entertained this idea only for an 
instant, then abruptly dismissed it. 

“A stupid expedient !” he exclaimed. 
“Are two such men as the duke and his 
accomplice likely to be caught napping? 
They are prepared for such a visit, and 
we should only have our labor for our 
pains.” 

He made these reflections sotto voce; 
and Father Absinthe's curiosity was 
aroused. 

“Excuse me,” said he, “I did not quite 
Understand you.” 

“I say that we must find some tangible 
proof before asking permission to pro- 
ceed further.” 

He paused with knitted brows. 

In seeking a circumstance which would 
establish the complicity between some 
member of the duke’s household and the 
witnesses who had been called upon to 
give their testimony, Lecoq thought of 
Madame Milner, the owner of the Hotel 
de Mariembourg, and his first meeting 
with her. 

He saw her again, standing upon a 
chair, her face on a level with a cage, 
covered with a large piece of black silk, 
persistently repeating three or four Ger- 
man words to a starling, who as persist- 
ently retorted: “Camille! Where is 
Camille ?” 

“One thing is certain,” resumed Lecoq; 
“if Madame Milner — who is a German 
and who speaks with the strongest possi- 
ble German accent — had raised this bird, 
it would either have spoken German or 
with the same accent as its mistress. 
Therefore it cannot have been in her pos- 
session long, and who gave it to her?” 

Father Absinthe began to grow impa- 
tient. 

“In sober earnest, what are you talk- 
ing about?” he asked, petulantly. 

“I say that if there is some one at the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, 1 
have the proof I desire. Come, Papa 
Absinthe, let us hurry on.” 

And without another word of explana- 
tion, he dragged his companion rapidly 
along. 

When they reached the Rue de Grenell 
Lecoq saw a messenger leaning against 
the door of a wine-shop. Lecoq ca'led 
him. 

“Come, my boy,” said he; “I wish 
you to go to the hotel de Sairmeuse and 
ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle 
is waiting her here.” 

“But, sir ” 

“What, you have not gone yet?” 

The messenger departed; the two po- 
licemen entered the wine-shop, and 
Father Absinthe had scarcely had time 
to swallow a glass of brandy when the 
lad returned. 

“Monsieur, I was unable to see Mile. 
Camille. The house is closed from top 


i to bottom. The duchess, died very sud- 
denly this morning.” 

“Ah! the w r retch!” exclaimed the 
i young policeman. 

1 Then, controlling himself, he mentally 
added: 

“He must have killed his wife on re- 
turning home, but his fate is sealed. 
Now, 1 shall be allowed to continue my 
investigations.” 

In less than tw r enty minutes they ar- 
rived at the Palais de Justice. 

M. Segmuller did not seem to be im- 
moderately surprised at Lecoq’s revela- 
tions. Still he listened with evident 
doubt to the young policeman’s ingen- 
ious deductions ; it was the circumstance 
of the starling that seemed to decide 
him. 

“Perhaps you are right,” my dear Le- 
coq,” he said, at last; “and to tell the 
truth, I quite agree with you. But I can 
take no further action in the matter until 
you can furnish proof so convincing in 
its nature that the Duke de Sairmeuse 
will be unable to think of denying it.” 

“Ah! sir, my superior officers will not 
allow me ” 

“On the contrary,” interrupted the 
judge, “they will allow you the fullest 
liberty after I have spoken to them.” 

Such action on the part of M. Segmul- 
ler required not a little courage. There 
had been so much laughter about M. 
Segmuller’s grand seigneur , disguised as a 
clow r n, that many nien would have sacri- 
ficed their convictions to the fear of 
ridicule. 

“And when will you speak to them?” 
inquired Lecoq, timidly. 

“At once.” 

The judge had already turned towards 
the door when the young policeman 
stopped him. 

“1 have one more favor to ask, mon- 
sieur,” he said, entreatingly. “You are 
so good; jmu are the first person who 
gave me any encouragement — who had 
faith in me.” 

“Speak, my brave fellow.” 

“Ah ! monsieur, will you not give me 
a message for M. d’Escorval? Any in- 
significant message— inform him of the 
prisoner’s escape. I will be the bearer 

of the message, and then Oh ! fear 

nothing, monsieur; I will be prudent.” 

“Very w r ell!” replied the judge. 

When he left the office of his c/ie/, Le- 
coq was fully authorized to proceed with 
his investigations, and in his pocket w^as 
a note for M. d'Escorval from M. Seg- 
muller. His joy was so intense that he 
did not deign to notic 1 the sneers which 
were bestowed upon him as he passed 
through the corridors. On the threshold 
his enemy Gevrol, the so-called general, 
was watching for him. 

“Ah, ha !” he laughed, as Lecoq passed 
out, “here is one of those simpletons who 


M0NS1EUK LECOQ 


305 


fish for whales and do not catch even a 
gudgeon.” 

For an instant Lecoq was angry. 
He turned abruptly and looked Gevrol 
full in the face. 

“That is better than assisting pris- 
oners to carry on a surreptitious corres- 
pondence with people outside,” he re- 
torted, in the tone of a man who knows 
what he is saying. 

In his surprise. Gevrol almost lost 
countenance, and his blush was equiva- 
lent to a confession. 

But Lecoq said no more. What did it 
matter to him now if Gevrol had be- 
trayed him ! Was he not about to 
win a glorious revenge ! 

He spent the remainder of the day in 
preparing his plan of action, and" in 
thinking what he should say when he 
took M. Segmuller's note to Maurice 
d’Escorval. 

The next morning about eleven o'clock 
he presented himself at the house of M. 
d’Escorval. 

“Monsieur is in his study with a young 
man,” replied the servant; “but, as he 
gave me no orders to the contrary, you 
may go in.” 

Lecoq entered. 

She study was unoccupied. But from 
the adjoining room, separated from the 
study only by a velvet portiere , came a 
sound of stifled exclamations, and of sobs 
mingled with kisses. 

Not knowing whether to remain or re- 
tire, the young policeman stood for a 
moment undecided; than he observed an 
open letter lying upon the carpet. 

Impelled to do it by an impulse strong- 
er than his own will, Lecoq picked up the 
letter. It read as follows. 

“The bearer of this letter is Marie- 
Anne's son, Maurice — your son. I h ve 
given him all the proofs necessary to es- 
tablish his identity. It was to his edu- 
cation that I consecrated the heritage of 
my poor Marie-Anne. Those to whose 
care I confided him have made a noble 
man of him. If I restore him to you, it 
is only because the life I lead is not a 
fitting life for him. Yesterday, the mis- 
erable woman who murdered my sister 
died from poison administered by her 
own hand. Poor Marie-Anne ! she would 
have been far more terribly avenged had 
not an accident which happened to me, 
saved the Duke and the Duchess de Sair- 
meuse from the snare into which I had 
drawn them. 

“Jean Laciieneur.” 

Lecoq stood as if petrified. 

Now he understood the terrible drama 
which had been enacted in the Widow 
Chupin’s cabin. t 

“I must go to Sairmeuse at once,” he 
said to himself; “therel can discover all.’’ 

He departed without seeing M. d’Es- 

20 


corval. He resisted the temptation to 
take the letter with him. 


It was exactly one month to a day after 
the death of Madame Blanche. 

lieclining upon a divan in his library 
the Duke de Sairmeuse was engaged in 
reading, when Otto, his valet d * chambre, 
came to inform him that a messenger was 
below, charged with delivering into the 
duke’s own hands a letter from M. 
Maurice d’Escorval. 

With a bound, Martial was on his feet. 

“Is it possible,” he exclaimed. 

Then he added, quickly : 

“Let the messenger enter.” 

A large man, with a very florid com- 
plexion, and red hair and beard, timidly 
handed the duke a letter. 

Martial broke the seal, and read : 

“I saved you, monsieur, by not recog- 
nizing the prisoner, May. In your turn, 
aid me! By noon, day after to-morrow. I 
must have two hundred and sixty thou- 
sand francs. 

“I have sufficient confidence in your 
honor to apply to you. 

“Maurice d’Escorval.” 

For a moment Martial stood bewil- 
dered, then, springing to a table, he be- 
gan writing, without noticing that the 
messenger was looking over his shoul- 
der : 

“Monsieur — Not day after to-morrow, 
but this evening. My fortune and my 
life are at your disposal. It is but a 
slight return for the generosity you 
showed in retiring, when, beneath the 
rags of May. you recognized your for- 
mer enemy, now your devoted friend, 
“Martial de Sairmeuse.” 

He folded this letter with a feverish 
hand, and giving it to the messenger 
with a louis, he said : 

“Here is the answer, make haste!” 

But the messenger did not go. 

He slipped the letter into his pocket, 
then with a hasty movement he cast his 
red beard and wig upon the floor. 

“Lecoq!” exclaimed Martial, paler 
than death. 

“Lecoq, yes, monsieur.” replied the 
young detective. “I was obliged to take 
my revenge ; mv future depended upon 
it, and I ventured to imitate M. d’Escor- 
val’s writing.” 

And as Martial made no response : 

“I must also say to Monsieur ie Due,” 
he continued, “that on transmitting to 
the judge, the confession written by the 
duke’s own hand, of his presence at the 
Poivriere, I can and shall, at the same 
time, furnish proofs of his entire inno- 
cence.” 


306 


'I / ' /';•„/ 

MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


And to show that he was ignorant of 
nothing, he added : 

u As madaine is dead, there will be 
nothing said in regard to what took 
place at the Borderie.” 

A week later a verdict of not guilty 
was rendered by M. Segmuller in the 
Case of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

Appointed to the position he coveted, 


> 

Lecoq had the good taste, or perhaps 
the shrewdness, to wear his honors mod- 
estly. 

But on the day of his promotion, he 
ordered a seal, upon which was engraved 
the exultant rooster, which he had 
chosen as his armorial design, and a 
motto to which he ever remained faith- 
ful: Semper Viyilans, 



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